


If You Love Me, Let Me Go

by BennyFreeBatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fanfiction, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 50,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7751026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BennyFreeBatch/pseuds/BennyFreeBatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is faced with his biggest mystery yet - love. When he meets John for the first time, everything changes.<br/>John isn't fooled by the stories he has heard, the brains without a heart. Instead, he falls for the man behind the monster.<br/>What might we deduce about his heart?<br/>Will Sherlock continue to stay married to his work? Or will he realise that the love of his life has been standing right in front of him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's No Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Johnlock fanfiction I have ever written so please be patient with me if you notice any mistakes.  
> I have already published this on Wattpad - My username is bennyfreebatch :-) 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy reading this story. I am very passionate about the show and characters so this is my little way of expressing my love for them.

 

The air was crisp, the sky was dark and the streets were empty. London was always a busy city but with winter soon approaching, John couldn't see a single soul in sight as he walked down Baker Street for the very first time. He didn't know exactly where he was going but he continued to walk with a stiff limp until he reached what appeared to be "221B." He stood there for a moment trying to remember a time when he didn't want to live in London. The last couple of years had been surreal for sure. John had seen some horrific sights during the war - enough for a lifetime. The screams and flesh wounds pouring with blood still wake him up gasping for air each night. Sleep wasn't something that John could easily do. Instead he would sit in his small, almost claustrophobic hotel room feeling sorry for himself. He missed the army, there was no doubt about that. But going back was impossible for him now. His injury seemed to have a habit of making everything impossible for him these days. The cold breeze against his skin was just a reminder that he was back where he belonged. He was finally home and there's no place like home.

John was suddenly taken aback by the sound of the ancient black door opening right before his eyes. Before him stood a jolly lady wearing a navy blue 60's dress that was covered in flour and stained with red paste.

"Oh dear, what are you doing standing there? I was warned about your arrival by Mr Holmes only an hour ago. You'll have to excuse the mess upstairs." She spoke enthusiastically.

Mrs Hudson, the fine landlady of 221B, welcomed John with open arms and showed him upstairs to the flat.

"Mr Holmes, is he here?" John said taking off his coat and sitting himself comfortably in the dusty armchair beside the fireplace.

"Is he ever here? I never know when to expect that man Dr Watson."

John quietly observed the flat whilst pretending to listen to every word that Mrs Hudson was saying. The flat wasn't big, but it was ideal for himself and Sherlock. There was plenty of room for the pair of them and John immediately made himself feel at home. This could work for him. Anything was better than the hotel he had previously stayed at. Strangely, John felt a sense of familiarity. Almost as if he had been here before, but that was impossible. He was soon greeted once again by Mrs Hudson who had just been into the kitchen to get a tray that appeared to be full of tea and biscuits.

"Just this once, dear. I'm a landlady, not a housekeeper!"  
John smiled softly at her before Mrs Hudson shuffled back into the kitchen.

John found the silence blissful. Being back in London was comforting to him. Understandably, John was used to being surrounded by loud noises, gun shots and explosions. Being an army doctor was the only thing that John found pride in. The memories were graphic, soldiers struggling to find life as John looked them in the eyes one last time. The panic and fear that took over his whole being when soldiers screamed in agony, clutching onto photos of their loved ones. Each day in Afghanistan was terrifyingly intense, living with the uncertainty of whether you would ever return home. The pain was real and John lived in a constant shadow of it every day.

"I see you've met my skull." The familiar shadow standing behind John began walking towards the fireplace.

The voice was distinctive, soft but crisp clear. John recognised it instantly.  
Sherlock and John had met earlier that afternoon on the tube. John had been searching for flats in the newspaper when he was approached by a tall, slim figure. Sherlock explained that he was looking for a flat mate as that way they would both be able to afford the rent together. For Sherlock, this was a first. People tend to irritate him and the idea of speaking to another human being is worse than listening to Mrs Hudson complaining about the neighbours. But there was something about John, something different. And Sherlock was keen to find out more.

"Mr Holmes." John looked up and followed Sherlocks gaze into the mirror.

Sherlock placed his hand on the skull figure that was resting on the mantle piece and turned to face John.

"What do you think?" He smirked at John before glancing around the rest of the flat.

"Homely." John replied sarcastically looking towards the lab equipment that was taking over the kitchen.

Sherlock's smirk soon faded however his eyes didn't blink long enough to take his eyes off John. The two of them sat in complete silence for the next half an hour enjoying each other's company. It was reassuring for them having the one one there. Both had much past experience of isolation and loneliness. The evening turned out to be quite pleasant once Mrs Hudson had decided to leave them both to get acquainted. Of course, Sherlock didn't think this was necessary.

"You're an army doctor. I deduce that you have recently got back from Afghanistan."

John had been warned about Sherlock's abnormal behaviour so he avoided the topic of conversation but he enjoyed Sherlock's presence all the same.

"What is it that you do exactly, Mr Holmes?" John asked trying to show his best interest.

"Call me sherlock, please. I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. Before you ask, this means that whenever the police are out of their depth, which if you ask me is always, they consult me. My brothers husband, inspector Lestrade, is head of the division. You'll probably see him wondering around here looking for something remotely interesting to do. He does that a lot."

"Oh, you have a brother?" John sounded surprised.

"Mycroft. But we don't have to talk about him. We don't have to talk about anything. I find silence can be quite comforting."

John felt as though he could relate to this. He found that Sherlock understood a lot of what was going on inside his head. John was reassured that he had made the right choice coming home and somehow sitting here with Sherlock had made him forget about the war. John was brought up by his older sister, Harriet, after his mother passed away when he was just six years old. However, not long after deciding to join the army, Harriet moved away and they both lost contact. John never understood why she left, but he had never felt so alone. Training to be an army doctor was John's main focus after that. He decided that he didn't have time to overthink the situation and he certainly wasn't going to think about someone who would just abandon him like that. However, that didn't stop John from wondering about his sister and the little time they had to get to know each other. That's the problem with the human mind. It's a death trap.

John found the silence to be deafening after a while and so started the conversation up again much to Sherlock's horror.

"So...do you have a partner then? Married?"  
John already knew the answer to his question but he put his newspaper down and decided to try and make this work.

"Uh no. I haven't got a partner. I'm married to my work and that's all you need to know."

Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on his laptop. He felt the topic was awkward and he had never been any good at expressing how he felt. Not to himself and certainly not to anyone else. There had never been any trust issues. This was just something that Sherlock felt most uncomfortable doing. Ever since he was a child Sherlock had isolated himself from everyone, especially his older brother, Mycroft.

Sherlock could sense that John's eyes were still fixed on him so he continued typing.

"Just like me then." John replied, breaking the long pause.

"I'm sorry what?" Sherlock finally looked up with a confused expression on his face.

"You're detached. Just like me." John said before looking back down at his newspaper which he had read at least twice by now.

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He didn't usually spend his evenings sitting with people he had just met. In fact, Sherlock didn't spend his evenings with anyone.

Little did either of them know that everything was about to change.


	2. Days Like These

The weeks that followed Sherlock and John's first meeting brought much frustration to the pair. Sherlock was driving himself even more insane due to the fact that Lestrade didn't have any work for him. Sherlock has always been a man with a busy schedule and so boredom didn't agree with him at the best of times. John hadn't known him long but it was obvious that Sherlock was completely obsessed with his work and he always had the constant urge to solve cases. Sherlock was intelligent, there was no doubt about that. However, John felt that there was more to it. Sherlock has the brains to be a philosopher, yet he chose to be the worlds only consulting detective. What does he get out of it? Sherlock didn't realise how obsessed he was with his work but it was clear to John that this is where his heart was. John was the only person who could keep Sherlock sane most of the time. Mrs Hudson had even stopped serving him tea in the morning because of the increasing number of insults. John didn't mind though, he was just glad to have the company. However, Sherlock did spend most of his time inside his mind palace. John's still not quite convinced what that is but then nothing about their story so far has made much sense to him.

"John, are you there? JOHN?" Sherlock screeched from the kitchen.

It took John a moment to get to him. By then Sherlock had shouted his name at least five times.

"You know you don't have to shout, Sherlock. I was only in the next room. Remember what Mrs Hudson said about the neighbours?"

"Oh forget about the neighbours, John! They lower the IQ of the entire city."

The insults didn't surprise John anymore. He didn't have much choice other than to just get on with it. Sherlock didn't usually listen to a word he said anyway.

"What are you doing tonight?" Sherlock said lowering his tone slightly.

"Tonight? Asking me out on a date already are you?" John said giggling to himself only he instantly regretted it.

Sherlock's expression remained the same. He wasn't amused. Instead he continued looking through the microscope that didn't seem move from the kitchen table. Sherlock spent most of his time doing his own research and experiments when he wasn't pining for work from Lestrade. John didn't even question him when he found a tongue in the freezer last week.

"I'm going out and I'd like an assistant. I need an assistant." Sherlock stated, softening his tone.

Although Sherlock and John had spent a lot of time together in the flat, they had never gone out anywhere together. John isn't even sure what Sherlock gets up to when he leaves 221B. However, something about the way Sherlock works intrigued John. He missed the army more than ever now that he wasn't working and his limp seemed to have healed without him realising. He appreciated the offer from Sherlock. It would do him a lot of good to get out. He was starting to smell like Mrs Hudson and nothing about that was pleasant.

"Yes of course. What is it exactly you need my help with?" John sounded more cheerful that he had done this morning. Maybe today wouldn't just be another bad day.

"Just meet me here at 6pm tonight. I'll explain everything later. I'm going out." And with that, Sherlock grabbed his cotton blue scarf from the back of the door and put it on followed by a long and heavy, dark navy coat.

Sherlock had gone before John could say another word. He walked over to the window carefully avoiding to knock any of Sherlock's belongings and stood patiently watching Sherlock disappear into the crowd. John finally let out a smile. He hadn't had much luck finding a job ever since he arrived back in London and he enjoyed the sense of feeling involved again. Maybe there was a real place for him here.

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. There was no sign of Sherlock but John checked his watch often to see if it was anywhere near 6pm. He checked his emails and found one from his counsellor, Rachel. Since returning from the war, John had weekly sessions with Rachel where he was advised to talk about his experiences and prevent the nightmares from happening. John was stubborn and felt as though talking about the war wouldn't help him. Instead, he tried to bury any memories of the war within his mind where not even Sherlock could find them. The hour John spends with his counsellor is quite possibly the longest hour he experiences each week. During the last session, to his surprise, John told Rachel how he had found a flat and is currently looking for work in the hope that she would think he had made some sort of progress. Of course neither of them believed it. John decided it was for the best not to mention Sherlock, however he couldn't stop himself from telling Rachel all about him once he got there. Rachel seemed impressed by Sherlock and his work as are most people when they hear about him. Before he knew it, the hour had finished and John left with a sense of achievement. He was given the task to start writing his own blog where he could document his days and anything particularly interesting that he might have done. He clicked on the tab that was still open from yesterday and saw the blank page. He couldn't think of a single thing to write and being John he didn't think it would do him much good anyway.

Soon after, the door burst open and Sherlock came rushing into the living room to find John sitting in his chair as he had done every evening since he moved in.

"Are you coming? I've just called over a taxi." Sherlock glanced at John briefly before walking straight back out the door.

John put all of his efforts into trying to keep up with Sherlock. He followed quickly behind him, increasing his pace as he did so, and the pair got into the taxi and headed off into the night. John was still oblivious as to where he was going or what was going on but he enjoyed the excitement of it all and for the first time in a long time, he felt good about himself.

The journey was only short and the taxi pulled up outside an old, unused factory. Blue flashing lights shone brightly in the nights sky and the sound of sirens grew louder. Sherlock was greeted by a man wearing a pale grey suit. He looked relatively important and it was obvious that they knew each other. It was hard to tell if the man was pleased to see Sherlock but he looked desperate for his help either way.

"Lestrade, meet my.... colleague. This is Doctor John Watson." Sherlock grinned looking John's way. Almost as if he enjoyed having someone to show off. Perhaps he was just trying to make a point.

"Colleague?" John sounded confused at the best of times.

"Well, you know." Sherlock replied looking back at Lestrade.

John didn't exactly consider himself to be Sherlock's friend at this stage but John was very aware that they were at a crime scene so perhaps having this conversation wasn't all that appropriate.

Sherlock and John followed Lestrade to the entrance of the abandoned factory where they discovered a body lying on the ground. The body was male, around 5ft 7inch in height and he was wearing what appeared to be a formal business suit.

Sherlock was given as much time as he needed on the crime scene with Lestrade's supervision. John decided that it would be for the best if he stood by the police car. He didn't want to get in Sherlock's way and clearly he didn't need an assistant. Whilst keeping his distance John couldn't help but watch Sherlock and Lestrade. Was Lestrade his friend? Sherlock didn't come across as the sort of person who would have many friends. However, there was something about him that John couldn't seem to resist. He had always been addicted to dangerous situations and people so it wasn't really such a surprise to him. The last few weeks sitting in the flat with nothing to do had made him realise this. Addicts don't seem to know they're addicted until they try to stop and for John, this seemed most impossible.

Within 6 minutes Sherlock had returned to John with Lestrade standing by his side.

"I'm done here" Sherlock said mischievously.

"You've solved it?" John asked in pure disbelief.

"No, not as yet. But I will. I need answers and I'm not going to find them here."

"I'll send you a copy of the report once it has been completed" Lestrade said with uncertainty looking towards Sherlock.

"Oh please, what report? I'll be the one writing the report Lestrade. You and I both know that by now." Sherlock replied arrogantly.

Lestrade knew that Sherlock was right. The truth is Sherlock had saved Lestrade more than enough times. A taxi pulled over and John climbed in followed by Sherlock.

"Oh and do say hello to my dear brother for me won't you." Sherlock winked at Lestrade before shutting the door behind him.

"We'll start first thing tomorrow morning. That way we'll have the information that we need to interview his family, friends and of course any enemies that Mr Jackson had. It shouldn't take too long to solve. I come across cases like this all the time. It's just like breathing to me" Sherlock announced.

Everything that Sherlock had ever said has always left John in pure amazement. At first John thought that perhaps he was trying to show off, but that wasn't it. Sherlock, the high functioning sociopath who's all brains and no heart remained a mystery to John. He still wasn't one hundred percent sure why he had been asked to help. Clearly Sherlock didn't need any assistance, maybe he just appreciated John being there? Nevertheless, the thrill of the new case gave John the adrenalin that he needed.

It was late when Sherlock and John returned back to Baker Street and by then John's thoughts were flooding. However, there was only one question that kept repeating in his mind...

What might we deduce about Sherlock's heart?


	3. The Game Is On

Nothing ever seems to go as planned. People say goodbye and eventually everyone moves on to a life that they had never imagined being apart of. These were John's first thoughts as he opened his light green eyes the following morning. The sound of someone's footsteps came from the other room. He checked his clock to find that it was just 4am. He told himself to just go back to sleep but curiosity took over and John grabbed his dressing gown and headed into the living room. There he found Sherlock walking back and forth looking quite agitated.

"Do you know what time it is, Sherlock?" John said with a sleepy tone. He rubbed his eyes and tried to make out what it was that Sherlock was doing at this ridiculous hour of the morning.

"I don't need sleep. I need answers, John."

It took John a moment to adjust to the brightness of the room and remember what it was that Sherlock was talking about.

"But it's 4 o'clock in the morning. Wait, have you been up all night?"

"Of course I have. Mysteries don't solve themselves, John."

Even at this early hour John couldn't deny the fact that he was impressed. He admired Sherlock's enthusiasm and determination. Sometimes to stay sane one must go a little crazy. Even if it is at 4 o'clock in the morning.

"Do you want coffee?" John didn't receive an answer so he wondered into the kitchen to attempt to wake himself up. However, the sound of the kettle boiling and the smell of fresh coffee was enough to get Sherlock's attention.

"Black. Two sugars please." He finally replied.

John couldn't help but grin. He tried to remember a time when he was awake at this hour. Since being back in London the nightmares hadn't been so bad. His mind finally felt at ease with the world and everything in it. This was a place John didn't feel so alone. It was a place he felt as though he belonged, where he had a real purpose.   
It was his home.

The two of them sat in the living room going through pages and pages of documents that Lestrade had sent over. Sherlock didn't even notice the sun had risen until he had grabbed his coat and headed off to the Mortuary, leaving John fast asleep in his chair.

Sherlock certainly wasn't known for making any personal attachments. He had always spent most of his time alone solving cases with astute observations, deducting reasoning and very little people skills. He doesn't understand emotions like most and he often comes across as being ignorant and rude. However, Sherlock had always felt very protective over Mrs Hudson. She had always been like a mother figure to Sherlock, especially when he most needed it. Mrs Hudson was always easily irritated by Sherlock's behaviour but deep down she wouldn't have it any other way.

The early morning really showed the true beauty of London. Like John, Sherlock felt at ease walking the streets and feeling that sense of familiarity. He knew the city well and he could never see the day when he would wake up somewhere else. He arrived at the Mortuary soon after 9 and was greeted by Lestrade who was sure to expect him.

"The lab report came through first thing this morning. There is a wound to the back of his head that had been made by a sharp, heavy object. There are also several severe stab wounds to his stomach which explains how he lost so much blood." Lestrade continued.   
"We have positively identified him as Robert Jackson. He works at the Bank near Regent Street as the deputy manager. Has done for the last 7 years according to his wife, Hazel. She came in first thing this morning as soon as she heard the news to identity him. Hazel is currently sitting with the liaison officer who's explaining everything thoroughly to her. She's going to contact Oliver, his younger brother. We didn't realise he had any close relatives until she mentioned him this morning. Hazel insisted on being the one to tell him."

Sherlock shrugged as if he had heard all of this too many times before. To him this was boring. He wanted something new, something exciting. He followed Lestrade who was currently taking him down a narrow corridor to observe the body. Lestrade was right. The stab wounds were deep, the victim had clearly been brutally attacked by his killer.

"Do you at least have a time of death?" Sherlock asked with a patronising tone to his voice.

"Reports estimate that his time of death was between 10am-1pm yesterday."

"Killed in broad daylight. How terribly fascinating" Sherlock smirked at the sheer audacity.

"I'll take that report, Lestrade. I'll find the killer for you by tomorrow at the latest." Sherlock spoke with confidence. He took the papers and headed out back into the cold.

By the time Sherlock had returned to Baker Street, John had already gotten dressed and been to the shops. One of them had to have the ability to remain a sense of normality and it certainly wasn't going to be Sherlock. John had been going through the papers and theories on Sherlock's desk and had even started writing his own notes.

"John, excellent. I need you to visit Robert's brother and question him for me. Lestrade will probably send a couple of his best officers round later on today but I doubt they'll get anywhere with him. Find out anything that you can." Sherlock handed John a piece of paper with the information that he needed. He didn't even take off his coat before he started pinning pieces of paper onto the walls.

"Me? You want me to go and question him?" John was stunned. Surely Sherlock didn't trust him enough to get involved in a case.

"Yes of course. I trust that you won't let me down, John." Sherlock didn't sound remotely concerned that John had never done this before.   
John grabbed his belongings, looked at Sherlock who was completely oblivious to anything that was going on outside his mind palace and headed out.

The address wasn't too difficult to find. John arrived at a narrow building that was surrounded by dead plants and the walls were covered in graffiti. It didn't seem as though anyone took much care of the property but he was certain that this was the right address. The door opened after the second knock and John was greeted by a woman in her mid thirties. She was wearing nothing more than a towel around her damp skin and blushed with embarrassment as John stood in the doorway looking rather speechless. John followed her into the living room where he was left alone while the woman made herself appear to be more decent. He sat down on the sofa closest to the window and pulled out his pen and notebook. He felt as though this is what Sherlock would expect him to do and he didn't want to disappoint. The room wasn't very spacious but John didn't intend on staying long. A tall, broad man walked into the room a few minutes later followed by his partner who had thrown on the first thing that she could find. John warmly introduced himself and informed them that he was looking into his brother's death.

"I'm so sorry for you loss. I understand that this isn't easy. Were you close to your Brother?" John tried to show his deepest sympathy towards him.

Oliver looked towards his partner almost as if he was asking her to speak for him.

"We were very close. We did everything together as kids, you know? Our mum said that we were out to cause trouble most of the time." You could tell that he was trying his best not to show any kind of emotion. People deal with grief in different ways and most are in denial over their loss at first.

"I understand." John tilted his head slightly. He had known loss and he had dealt with it at such a young age. His memories of his mother were vague, but they were all he had.

"This is difficult, Oliver. But in order to find out what happened to your brother we need to start eliminating people from the suspect list. Starting with his family and closest friends. Do you understand?"

Oliver's girlfriend placed her hand on his shoulder trying to comfort him. He nodded and agreed to answer everything the best that he could.

"Where were you yesterday between the hours of 10am and 1pm?" John opened his notebook and started taking notes as he felt that this is something that Sherlock would expect him to do.

"Uh, well, I usually get up at 6am to go out for a run. Helps to focus my mind and I enjoy the city more without the crowds of people. I got back, showered and walked through the park to the tube. I got to work just before 9am. I work at the new gym on Goswell Road. You heard of it?"

John couldn't say that he had. He'd barely left the flat since he'd returned to London.

"Did you stay at work all afternoon?" John continued.

"Yeah we're busy during the week. With all the new advertisement we've been rushed off our feet. I finished at 6pm, got the tube back and was home for 7pm. Michaela and I spent the rest of the evening here."

"We had a cosy night in on the sofa. I cooked for us both. It was kind of a celebratory meal." Michaela interrupted. She had a slight smile on her face and placed her hand gently over her stomach.

"Oh, congratulations." John smiled briefly at them both before looking back down at his notebook.

"Michaela, what about you?" John turned the page and continued taking notes.

"I'm not working at the moment. I usually stay home during the day but I left the house at 11.30am to attend a yoga class. It's supposed to help with the pregnancy." She glanced over at Oliver before taking his hand.

"Right, I think I've got all that I need for now. You've both been helpful and again I am sorry for your loss." John handed them his number incase they had any more information that could benefit the investigation. He let himself out though the front door and back into the cold. He wrapped his scarf tightly around him and fastened up his coat.

The journey didn't take too long. Before he knew it, John was back at Baker Street with Sherlock. He was home.


	4. Meet Mycroft

Nothing made any sense. Who would want to hurt an innocent soul? Frustration took over Sherlock's thoughts as he and John continued trying to piece the jigsaw together. Neither of them said a word for the rest of the afternoon. Sherlock had John running errands for him across the city as he ignored the many missed calls on his phone.

"Oh Sherlock, do switch your phone off. You know I hate those things." Mrs Hudson walked into the living room carrying her usual tray full of afternoon tea.

"Is John not helping you?" She asked curiously.

"Of course he is. Why would you think that?" Sherlock looked at her.

"Well he's not here for a start dear. Oh you haven't fallen out have you." Mrs Hudson had always been a great admirer of the pair ever since John moved in.

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and glanced around the room looking incredibly confused. 

"He popped out over an hour ago." Mrs Hudson continued, trying her best to remind him.

Sherlock had spent the last couple of hours in his mind palace. He often didn't realise if John had left the room which explained why he sat there having endless conversations with himself.

"Oh, that's right!" Sherlock finally said.

"John's at the station with Lestrade getting an upstate on that lab report. Some new evidence or something." He didn't sound remotely interested. Most likely because he didn't think anything that the police were doing would actually help solve the case.

*phone rings*

"Are you going to answer that?" Mrs Hudson snapped.

"It's not important." Sherlock shook his head and continued organising the documents that were scattered all over the living room floor.

Just at that very moment the door opened and a rather important looking man appeared. He was wearing an expensive black suit which was still dry despite the pouring rain outside. He put down the large umbrella and looked most unimpressed glancing Sherlock's way. Both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson turned their heads almost at once.

"Hello, brother dear. I'd almost forgotten what you looked like. It's been a while, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock smirked at Mycroft, almost as if there was absolutely nothing toxic about their relationship with one another.

Mycroft glanced over to find Sherlock's phone resting on the coffee table.

"Oh my mistake. I just assumed that you were too busy to answer my calls. It never once occurred to me that you might just not be interested in what I have to say." Mycroft spoke sarcastically.

"I've been busy. You know how it is." Sherlock went back to rearranging the mess on the carpet.

Mrs Hudson glanced over at Mycroft before scurrying back into the kitchen downstairs. She had never seen eye to eye with Mycroft. One Holmes was more than enough to deal with, let alone two.

Sherlock stood up and walked over to his brother. He had always been slightly taller than him which was a great advantage to Sherlock. Mycroft was extremely intelligent, you could argue even more so than Sherlock. He worked with the British Government, or as Sherlock would say, 'Mycroft is the British Government.' Their childhood contained many unresolved issues between the two of them. Neither Sherlock or Mycroft liked to talk about their past and neither were particularly found of each others company. However, Mycroft had always been very protective of his younger brother. Sherlock was his responsibility and as much as Sherlock hated it, Mycroft was always checking up on him. He was always there for him.

"Just a text once in a while wouldn't go unappreciated, Sherlock." Mycroft made himself comfortable in John's chair.

Sherlock followed him and sat opposite. If looks could kill, it wouldn't be long before both were lying out cold on a slab in the mortuary.

"I hear someone has moved in. Finally made a friend have we?" Mycroft let out a daring smile.

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't have to explain anything to him.

"Poor him. How anyone could put up with you for this long is beyond my belief. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"What are you doing here? You've got Lestrade to irritate now, you don't need me."

"I have, haven't I?" Mycroft smiled.

"I didn't realise I was alone until I met him. I used to think that caring was a disadvantage, how very wrong I was too. Marriage changes you in ways that you possibly can't imagine, Sherlock."

"As does lethal injection." Sherlock replied. He didn't have time to sit around and listen to his brother's love life. Although, as much as Sherlock hates to admit it...he was happy for them both. Lestrade wasn't the best detective Sherlock had come across, or the best brother in law come to mention it, but he was the best husband to Mycroft and for that reason alone, Sherlock could only find happiness in his heart for them both.

"Well, I have enjoyed this little chat of ours. You'd better be off." Sherlock stood up and opened the door.

Mycroft didn't want to cause another argument between them both so he thought it would be best if he just left him to it.

Footsteps grew louder as John made his way up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock's eyes widened. He didn't want to have to introduce them both and it would only cause trouble for himself. John smiled as he was greeted by Sherlock holding the door open for him. Only John then noticed the figure sitting in his chair. His mouth dropped open. Sherlock couldn't figure out if John was more shocked over the fact that there was another human being in their flat, or that he was sitting in his chair. Either way, nobody spoke for about a minute.

John finally faced Sherlock, hoping for some answers.

"John... Meet Mycroft. My brother." Sherlock took the file from John's hands and looked towards his brother.

"Mycroft. Oh so this is your brother. Well, I guess it's about time we met. I gather you already know exactly who I am." John held out his hand and shook Mycroft's.

"I like you already, John. If there's something about me that you ought to know, then it's that you should never underestimate me."

"Mycroft was just about to leave. Pity, really." Sherlock's eyes met Mycroft's before glancing over towards the door.

"Yes, it seems I must. I'm sure I'll be seeing much more of you, John." Mycroft grinned at Sherlock who was not amused and headed out of 221B.

"Did Lestrade have anything interesting for us down at the station? I predict not but he can be full of surprises." Sherlock asked.

"What was your brother doing here Sherlock? Has something happened?" John sounded concerned.

"Actually, yes. Something tragic did happen once around the time of his birth but I've had plenty of time to get my head around that. Did Lestrade have anything for us, John?"

"Uh, no. Not much. They still haven't been able to trace the knife that caused the stab wounds, but they discovered that the wound to the back of his head was made with a rotting brick found near the factory." John explained.

"So we know that he was killed at the crime scene. That's something I suppose." Sherlock stated.

"So, say that the victim met up with the killer at the factory, why did they meet there specifically? Had they met there before? Perhaps one of them used to work there?" John continued.

"Finally, John. You're asking the right questions." Sherlock seemed slightly impressed.

"Okay, so the killer and the victim arrange to meet there because it's perfectly secluded. They won't be interrupted and most importantly they don't want to be caught. Things start to get heated, everything blows out of proportion. Robert turns to leave, however the killer grabs the first thing they see and hit Robert at the back of the head with it before they can even so much think about what they've just done. The killer has never hurt anyone before and so they start to panic. They know that it's too late to turn back now, so they make sure that the job has been done properly." Sherlock tries to sound confident with his theory.

"But why is there a wound to the back of the head and stab wounds to the front of his stomach? It doesn't seem to add up." John sounded confused. Sherlock didn't know how to answer so the two of them stood in complete silence.

John decided to make them both something to eat. It was getting late and neither of them had eaten all day.

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock said reading John's mind, or rather answering the sound of his stomach rumbling.

"Sherlock, you need to eat something. Just let me make us both something. If you're going to solve this case then you need to keep your strength up." John insisted.

"We. If we're going to solve the case, John." Sherlock smiled and walked over to the coffee table where he pulled his violin out of it's case.

He didn't play often. Usually Sherlock would play if he was ever overthinking something. John didn't mind though. Classical music had always been a guilty pleasure of his.

The two of them managed to clear their plates. Sherlock didn't like to admit it, but he actually enjoyed their meal. John being there seemed to be doing him a lot of good. Stubbornness seemed to get the better of both of them at the best of times.

"I'm just going out for some air." Sherlock said, grabbing his coat and he headed outside leaving John to clear the dishes.

A few moment later the door opened. John just assumed that it was Sherlock. Perhaps he had forgotten something. Only John turned to find Mycroft standing in the living room.

"I seemed to have left my umbrella here. Can't go anywhere without it. You know how lousy the British weather can be." He muttered.

Mycroft picked up the umbrella and glanced over to the table where he saw the empty plates and glasses.

"Oh, I didn't mean to interrupt." He raised his eyebrows before looking back at John.  
"You didn't." John replied. "Sherlock has just gone out for some air."

"Can I just give you some friendly advice, John?" Mycroft started waking towards him.  
John knew exactly where the conversation was going but there was not much he could do to stop it.

"Sherlock doesn't get attached, to anyone. He doesn't understand emotions and feelings like everyone else. However, since you moved in, I've seen a different side to him."

"How could you possibly know that? You haven't seen him." John exclaimed.

"Like I told you earlier, John. Never underestimate me. I always have my ways."

John shook his head. He didn't have time to be lectured by someone he had only recently met.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it and Sherlock...well, Sherlock -"

"Sherlock doesn't get involved, John." Mycroft interrupted.

"Listen. I know him. I know him more than you and I would like to think I do. Sherlock does care. Not just about his work, but about the people that he surrounds himself with. He just doesn't realise it. I don't know what happened between you and your brother when you were younger."

Mycroft looked down. He didn't like where this was going.

"But just tell me, Mycroft. Did you see yourself getting married? Did you see anyone moving in with your brother? People change. Sherlock might not be quite there yet, but he'll be fine. So, whatever you think is going on here, well, you're wrong." John argued.

"Fine. I can see that I'm not needed here. Just promise me one thing though, John." Mycroft looked up, allowing their eyes to meet.

"Take care of him for me. We may have our differences but along this process, Sherlock is going to realise that his work doesn't mean everything to him. He's going to come across things, feelings that he doesn't understand and believe me, it's going to hurt. Trust me, I know. He's going to need someone to be there for him. He's going to need you. Sherlock doesn't let anyone get inside his head. But for some reason that doesn't apply to you, John. He chose you. Don't let him down, please."

John nodded his head and watched as Mycroft took himself and his umbrella out of 221B.

It was about half an hour later when Sherlock returned. The case was taking longer to solve than he had originally imagined. That was okay though. Just because this was taking a little longer, it didn't mean to say that they had failed. Sherlock said goodnight to John who was far too comfortable typing up his blog to go to bed just yet.

It took John a while to drift off to sleep. Mycroft's words kept on going around in his mind. Why was he here? John didn't know the answer but he did know that Mycroft was right. Sherlock needed someone to be there for him and John was more than happy to stay because after all...

Sherlock chose him.


	5. Grief Is Not As Heavy As Guilt

The sound of the alarm woke Sherlock at 9am the following morning. He had slept all night which was a first for him. He had never experienced nightmares, unlike John, but his thoughts kept him awake most nights. He awoke feeling refreshed and ready for the day ahead of him. Sherlock yawned and ran his hands through his black curls before deciding to get out of bed and straight into the shower. On his way, he passed the living room where he found John fast asleep in his chair. This was the third night in a row John hadn't been to his own bed which slightly concerned Sherlock. He convinced himself that there was nothing to worry about and headed straight to the bathroom.   
He wasn't in there long, 15 minutes at the most. Sherlock threw a towel around his waist and slumbered into the kitchen.

"Your coffee is on the kitchen table." A familiar voice echoed.

John had woken up and changed his clothes in the hope that Sherlock hadn't noticed he had slept in the living room.

"Don't worry. It's black with two sugars." John offered a warm smile towards him.

He was very aware of the fact that Sherlock was only covered by a small towel, but Sherlock didn't seem bothered. He grabbed the mug of coffee and headed back to his room to get ready. They both had a lot to do today if they were ever going to catch this killer.

"I want to go back and interview his brother, Oliver." Sherlock announced.

"Right. Why do you think I missed something?" John questioned.

"No no no, John. You can't miss what you didn't know existed. I just want to eliminate the impossible. That way whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"You're welcome to come with me." Sherlock asked in the hope that John would join him. He liked company when he goes out. Even the loneliest of people can't stay in the arms of silence forever.

Sherlock and John arrived at the house where Roberts brother, Oliver and his girlfriend, Michaela lived in less than half an hour. To John the house was familiar as he had only been there two days ago. The door was answered by Oliver who greeted them wearing a pair of grey joggers and a simple white t shirt. Both of them were offered tea but they all knew that this wasn't a social visit. Sherlock needed answers and he needed them now.

"Tell me, where were you between the hours of 10am and 1pm last Friday, Mr Jackson?" Sherlock questioned.

"I was in work. I've already told your friend here." Oliver replied looking over at John who was sitting on the chair opposite.

"You see, Mr Jackson. I'm Sherlock Holmes. I know when people are lying, unlike my good friend here. Now tell me again, where were you?" Sherlock was starting to lose his patience.

"I can't make this any simpler, Mr Holmes. I left for work that morning and I didn't return until later that evening. You're perfectly welcome to check with my boss."

"Do you at least know anybody that would want to hurt your brother?" Sherlock continued.

This question seemed to take Oliver by surprise.

"Of course not. Robert was liked by everyone that he knew. Well, all apart from one." He left Sherlock and John waiting at suspense.

"Go on." John nodded.

"Well, before Hazel, Robert was seeing someone else. They were quite serious, engaged at one point. But he started seeing Hazel behind her back."

"He had an affair?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yes. She caught Robert with Hazel one night. She had returned home early from work to cook them a romantic meal and well, you get the picture."

"How did she take it?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask the obvious question.

"Badly. Very badly. She only had it in for Robert though. She hated him with everything that she had, quite rightly I suppose. Hazel didn't hear a word from her. Anyway, Robert and Hazel moved in together. The threats continued up until the last couple of weeks which have been quiet. She must of given up trying to destroy his happiness. Perhaps she found her own." Oliver explained.

"Or she was plotting her final revenge." Sherlock spoke out loud without realising he had done so.

"I mean if it's even her, right? Perhaps she had just given up trying to torture him and decided to move on with her own life." Sherlock stood up and started wondering around the room. He appeared to be very observant. Not even John knew exactly what he was thinking.

Once again, they left the house with only more unanswered questions. On the way out, they ran into Michaela who was introduced to Sherlock for the first time.

"Have you found any new evidence?" She asked with a strong concern.

"Not as yet." John answered on Sherlock's behalf.

She looked at them both briefly before letting herself into the house and closing the door.

Sherlock and John retuned home and started trying to track down Robert's ex partner. However, after a bit of luck, they discovered that she had moved abroad just under three weeks ago. CCTV spotted her leaving so there was no way she could have done it.

"She has a pretty good alibi if you ask me." John said trying to add a little humour, but expectedly it didn't seem to work.

"We're back to square one. FOR GOD'S SAKE, JOHN!" Sherlock was slowly starting to lose his patience. That's if he had any to begin with.

John took a seat and tried to make sense of all of this. He advised Sherlock to sit down too in the hope that it would calm him.

"You fell asleep here again last night." Sherlock broke the silence, changing the conversation.

"I was up late typing up my new blog." John explained. Only his facial expressions told Sherlock a completely different story.

"John?"

"I've been trying to find my sister. Ever since I got back, I just can't stop myself from wondering about her. Being home, back in London, has brought a lot of memories back." John frowned and tried to avoid the awkward eye contact with Sherlock.

"She left you, John. You don't have to put yourself through all of this -"

"I found her." John interrupted him before he could say another word.

"I researched her, hoping that luck would be on my side for once..and I found her. She's living in Italy with her fiancé." John explained.

"Italy. You spoke to her then?" Sherlock asked.

"No. I wouldn't know what to say or where to begin. I've lived without her most of my life. I've put my mind at ease by finding her and knowing that she's well. That's all I wanted to do." John continued to avoid any eye contact.

Sherlock gave him a sympathetic look all the same.

"Anyway, this case." John tried his best to change the topic. Sherlock could see that so he went along with it.

Sherlock stood up and wondered into the kitchen where he was greeted by Mrs Hudson. She had kindly made them both some tea. It was what she liked to do best because they both secretly appreciated her efforts.

"You're too kind really, Mrs Hudson." John spoke with a smile on his face.

"Well, it's not like I have my own children to take care of." She replied. "It helps to pass the time."

"You were married though?" John continued.

"Oh of course dear. We had the most beautiful wedding day. But children was something that we never particularly discussed with one another. Perhaps that's why he left me for someone else dear, who knows?" Mrs Hudson tried to speak positively.

"Of course, John!" Sherlock jumped up from his chair looking rather pleased with himself. He kissed Mrs Hudson on her forehead and grabbed his coat that was resting on the sofa.

"It's always the quite ones. The people no one imagines anything of are often the people who are very capable of doing what no one can imagine." Sherlock's riddles left John and Mrs Hudson more confused than ever.

"What has gotten into you?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Come, John! The game is most definitely on." Sherlock exclaimed before the two of them rushed out of the flat preventing Mrs Hudson from saying another word.

Oliver and Michaela returned home to find Sherlock and John sitting comfortably on their sofa. How they had managed to get in, neither of them knew.

"How did you get here? Do you know what time it is? I'm calling the police!" Oliver screeched and ran to get the phone.

"I wouldn't bother if I was you." Sherlocked replied calmly.

"They're already on their way." A smug smile escaped his lips.

"What do you mean they're on there way. I've already told you. My brothers death had nothing to do with me!" Oliver was beginning to lose his patience, revealing his temper.

"Oh, are you sure about that? So it wasn't an act of defence, jealousy or even love?" Sherlock replied glancing over at the pair.

"What about you, Michaela? You're very quiet." Sherlock continued to smirk.

"You see, we both know that there was no yoga class, don't we?" Sherlock continued.

Oliver turned his head to face her, he didn't like where this was going.

"How far gone are you?" Sherlock asked out of curiously.

"Just three months." She replied quite hesitantly.

"You see, this is what I think happened. I think that you were seeing Robert behind Oliver's back. Having an affair." Sherlock continued

"What! No. I'd never do th -"

"I think you met up whenever Oliver went to work. The first chance that you had. Only it started to get more serious, didn't it? You found out you were pregnant. You could have stopped the affair and lived happily ever after here, nobody would have to know. The child wouldn't look much different, Oliver would never find out. But you made a mistake, didn't you? You called Robert and decided to tell him. You met up at the factory and told him the exciting news. However, Robert couldn't let you bring up your child with Oliver. He couldn't just be the child's favourite Uncle. No, that wasn't enough for him. He told you that he was going to come clean to Oliver, didn't he? You knew you had to stop him. So, without thinking you grab the first object that you can find and hit him. He's unconscious but he's still alive, you checked, you panicked. You couldn't just leave him like that. He was going to tell Oliver the biggest lie you've ever told. He was going to destroy your happiness together. You weren't upset or scared anymore, you were angry. Robert turned to face you, he attempted to get up. But you pulled the knife from within your bag and you stabbed him, over and over again. You wanted to watch the life leave his eyes, you wanted to take his life in return for your happiness and your future. "

Both Oliver and Michaela sat not saying a single word. Tears ran down her cheeks as she tried to take Oliver's hand.

"The only person who stole our happiness and our future, was you. You've taken everything from me." Oliver said in disbelief. He could barely believe what he was hearing.

"This baby was never going to be his, Oliver, look at me. It was always you." She tired her best to sound convincing yet her efforts failed.

Finally, having heard enough excuses, Oliver marched out of the room trying to fight his tears. John raced to his feet and began to follow him. He wasn't sure what he could do to help at this point, but he knew that none of this could be easy for him.

The blue flashing lights shone brightly outside and the sound of sirens grew louder. A matter of seconds had passed before Lestrade burst through the front door with his finest officers. The arrest didn't take long. Sherlock felt a sense of relief, as did Lestrade.

"Good job." Lestrade said looking at Sherlock with a smile on his face.

"We'll get her checked out before we take her down to the station." He said just before leaving the room.

It wasn't long before Sherlock and John followed Lestrade out of the house. They appreciated the fresh air.

"It's always the ones you least expect." Sherlock smiled feeling a sense of achievement as he watched Michaela getting into the police car.

"Sherlock, you can't smile. Not here, not now." John told him but the pair ended up laughing to themselves.

"We make a good team after all." Sherlock said glancing John's way.

"You did most of the work." John replied, dismissing his own efforts.

"Nonsense, John. You know I'd be lost without my favourite blogger."


	6. Patience

The next couple of days were quiet. Mrs Hudson was no where to be seen and Sherlock was away solving one of Lestrade's new cases. John had 221B all to himself with absolutely nothing to do. He was still determined to find himself a job. Of course, solving cases with Sherlock was interesting to say the least. But John wanted something that he could call his own.

The surgery opened at 7am which didn't stop John from being the first one there. He had been scheduled an interview for a part time job they had available. With John's remarkably impressive CV, he was offered the job within the first twenty minutes of him being there. He didn't need to start for another week so John decided to call and get some groceries to take home.

He returned to the flat to find Mycroft sitting in his chair. John didn't even question how he had gotten in. Knowing Mycroft he had probably made himself a copy of the keys. John put down his bags and walked over to the fireplace where he gave Mycroft a disturbing glare. Mycroft slowly stood up, walked around the table and placed himself comfortably in Sherlock's chair.

"Ah, better." John smiled.

"Oh, for goodness sake. You're worse than Sherlock. It's only a chair." Mycroft replied raising his eyebrow.

"Then you'll have no trouble sitting in Sherlock's while he is away, will you?"  
John sat himself down. Mycroft's visits were only brief. He wasn't even sure why he had decided to visit. Clearly he knew that Sherlock was away. Perhaps that's why he was there.

"I gather that you're well, John." Mycroft said trying to change the subject.

"Any sane individual would think that you came here to check up on me?" John replied.

"Do they do that? People?" Mycroft asked with curiosity.

"Do what exactly?" John replied with confusion.

"Think?"

"Apparently we do." John said shaking his head.

Mycroft's eyes were fixed on John's. Neither of them spoke for some time.

"You're not as sane as you think you are, John. You're voluntarily living with my brother for a start." Mycroft smirked.

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you could voluntarily leave the flat. I don't need a babysitter, Mycroft."

John didn't have time for meaningless conversations. He showed Mycroft out of the flat and decided to go and put away his shopping.

Sherlock had only been gone for two days and it had been quiet to say the least. John missed having someone there, someone to talk to. He missed Sherlock, which is something he would never admit out loud. Maybe he should call him? Just to check that everything was going well with the case. Why hadn't Sherlock called him? Perhaps he didn't want to speak to John. Or perhaps he was having the same thoughts in his head.   
Whatever the reason was, it didn't stop them from thinking about eachother.

The afternoon passed quite quickly. John sat comfortably in his chair before hearing a knock at the door. Mrs Hudson was out so it was left to John to go and answer it. In front of him stood a rather petite woman. She had thick, brunette curls and was wearing a cotton dress wrapped in a purple winter coat.

"John?" She said hesitantly with a smile on her face.

"Uh, yes. Can I help you?" John wasn't sure how she knew his name but he remained to be friendly.

"You left this in the waiting room this morning at the surgery." She said handing over a mobile phone.

"Oh thank you! I didn't even notice it was missing." He sounded grateful and invited the woman in for a cup of coffee.

"My name is Jenna." She spoke softly and followed John into the flat.

Neither of them had realised how much time had passed until Mrs Hudson entered the living room, accidentally disturbing them. John had made three cups of coffee. Well, four if you included the first. He made it black with two sugars, just how Sherlock likes it, before realising that he wasn't actually making it for Sherlock.

Jenna pulled out a card with her number on it and smiled as she handed it to John. She picked up her coat and glanced at Mrs Hudson before letting herself out.

Mrs Hudson seemed most shocked as she raised her eyebrows towards John.

"We're going on a date tomorrow night." John announced with a smile on his face.

"She's a woman?" Mrs Hudson's mouth still hung open is disbelief.

"Of course." John looked baffled.

"You are going on a date with a woman?" Mrs Hudson couldn't quite believe what she was asking.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson. I am going on a date tomorrow night, with a woman." John confirmed.

"Well, you have surprised me!" She said before scurrying off into the kitchen.

John chose to ignore the confused glares she had given him and made himself comfortable in his chair before checking his phone. He found three texts all from the same number.

'I've found the murderer's head  
I think we'll call it a draw  
I'll be home tomorrow. -S'

A smile couldn't help but appear on John's face. He didn't know if he was more pleased over the fact that Sherlock would be home tomorrow, or that he had actually received a message from him. He didn't reply. He just sat there grinning to himself for most of the night.

It had been a while since John had got ready for a date. Apart of him really wanted tonight to go well. The other part of him was disappointed that he wouldn't be home when Sherlock got back. John wore his favourite pale blue shirt and jacket to match. He didn't think that he scrubbed up too badly. He decided to wear a dark navy stripped tie to dismiss the casual look and he arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. Jenna was nowhere to be seen so John ordered himself a drink and waited impatiently checking his watch every two to three minutes.

"John?" A familiar voice said coming from behind him.

"Jenna, hello. You look wonderful. Wow." John said leaning in to kiss her cheek.

He pulled out her chair and took her coat. It wasn't his first time on a date with someone that was way out of his league.

They both ordered the chef's special and spent their time laughing and talking to one another while they waited for their food to arrive.

"Have you always lived in London?" Jenna asked before sipping her red wine.

"Yes I have. Well, I grew up here before joining the army. I was away for a few years in Afghanistan but then I returned here just a few months ago." John smiled. He didn't want to reveal too much at this stage and John had always been quite private about his personal life.

"It's a nice flat you've got." Jenna stated, returning the smile.

"Thank you. I have a flat mate. He's uh, well he's been away working for the last few days. He's actually coming back tonight." John said with a smile on his face.

John pulled his sleeve up and checked his watch once again.

"Oh, have you got somewhere else you need to be?" Jenna sounded dismissive.

"No. No of course not. I - I'm just wondering where this food is. I'm starving." John smiled before taking a large sip of his whiskey.

Over dinner, John continued to talk about the wonder that is Sherlock and all of the cases that they have solved together. He wasn't the one one checking the time. Jenna wasn't having the most enjoyable date listening to John ramble on about someone she had never even met. Clearly John had other things on his mind. The date finished earlier than John had expected but he continued to sit there drinking away.

The restaurant didn't close for another couple of hours but the waiter advised John to go home and sleep before his hangover started the following day.

John staggered into 221B after getting lost about twenty times trying to find his way back. He crawled up the stairs to find Sherlock unpacking in the living room.

"Ah, I really am home." John slurred his words and tried his best to remain standing up by the door.

"John! I've only been gone for three days. What the hell has happened to you? I expect my blogger to hold himself up to a higher standard than this!" Sherlock put down the pile of clothes he was carrying and helped John over to his chair.

"Mycroft." John whispered to himself.

"No, John. I'm Sherlock." He replied sarcastically, shaking his head.

"No no no. He was here. Last week when you went out by yourself like you usually do." John's eyes kept closing but he tried his best to pull himself together.

"You need me, right?" John mumbled.

Sherlock continued unpacking and ignored the state that John was in.

"That's what he said." John continued rambling.

"That's what who said? John just go to sleep. I need you to be in the right frame of mind. One of us has got to be." Sherlock said.

"That's what I am saying! You need me." John was drifting in and out of consciousness but he continued nevertheless.

"Yes, John. I need you to be sober."

"You and I both know that's not what you mean." John smiled to himself.

Sherlock glanced over at John in his chair. His eyes were completely shut but he was still smiling sweetly to himself. He had missed this. Sherlock had convinced himself that it didn't matter where home was. I mean, home is always where your heart is. Sherlock was away solving a case so surely he wouldn't miss this stupid flat. But he did. Only he realised that it wasn't the flat he missed, nor Mrs Hudson, it was John. It was this exact moment right now where it was just the two of them.

Sherlock always knew that Mycroft would attempt to get involved in whatever this was. Every person in Sherlock's life had been approached by Mycroft who had filled their head with nonsense. Only he didn't do that with John, because he was right.

Sherlock did need him. He just wasn't ready to admit it.


	7. Out Of The Woods

Everything seemed louder and brighter the following morning for John who was struggling to get up and out of bed. He could barely remember anything about the date but he did vaguely remember talking to Sherlock when he staggered in last night.

Sherlock.

John jumped out from underneath the quilt to find he was lo longer wearing his trousers from last night. His tie hung loosely around his neck and his shirt was creased. Instead of asking any questions, John stumbled into the kitchen, tripping over his own feet as he walked.

As he stood there trying to adjust to the bright lighting in the kitchen, a tall yet familiar figure appeared behind him and without warning he yelled into John's ear.

"Morning!" Sherlock screeched with a sneaky grin on his face.

"Do you mind?! Sherlock, please. Keep quiet." John rubbed his forehead and sat down by the kitchen table.

"Oh, you're welcome by the way." Sherlock continued whilst putting the kettle on.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me." John kept his head down in shame.

Sherlock couldn't help but grin. Something told him that he would be winding John up about this for a little while yet.

"Don't tell me that you were out drinking with Mycroft last night? I only left you both for a few days." Sherlock shook his head in disgust.

"No, not exactly. I would need to have been on drugs for that to have happened." John managed to look up at Sherlock before the pair of them burst out laughing.

"I was uh, well, I was actually - I was on a sort of date type thing." John said still looking at Sherlock. God, he had missed those light blue, ocean eyes.

"A date? Oh. That's uh, good." Sherlock didn't mean to sound so unconvinced.

"It was awful. I can't even remember her leaving but I could hardly blame her. I was a complete mess." John covered his head with his hands and lightly rested it on the kitchen table.

"Well, there's always the next one, right?" Sherlock poured the boiling hot water into the first two mugs that he could find.

John didn't reply. The truth is, John didn't know exactly why he was in such a mess last night. He just knew that coming home to find Sherlock here made him happy.

"I'm going to have a shower to try and wake myself up." John smiled briefly at Sherlock and took his coffee with him.

Sherlock decided to wear his plum purple shirt that fitted him perfectly. He quickly ran his hands through his hair. It didn't need a wash today but his morning hair was never his favourite feature. He put his golden brown dressing gown back on and returned to the living room where he logged onto John's laptop. John knew that Sherlock used his computer so he didn't bother to change his password. He only would have guessed it again.

Lestrade knocked gently on the door before entering wearing a pale grey coat that hung down to his ankles. He could hear the water running from the bathroom and the smell of coffee was too strong to ignore.

"How's sleeping beauty?" He said, chuckling to himself.

"Conscious. It's a working progress." Sherlock replied before nodding towards John's seat.

Lestrade sat down and caught his breath before asking if there was any coffee going spare. Somehow the stairs leading up to the flat grew steeper every time he visited. Either that, or Mycroft was getting slightly carried away with the home baking.

"And how are you?" Lestrade's tone changed slightly. Sherlock looked at him meaningfully without saying a word.

"I haven't spoken to you for a while, I do apologise." Lestrade continued.

"Do keep your voice down, Lestrade. John may be hungover but he's not deaf!" Sherlock hissed.

"You're my alibi, remember? I told him that you'd sent me off on a case. I did tell you before I left." Sherlock didn't break eye contact.

"Sorry, yes you did. And he hasn't suspected anything?" Lestrade questioned.

"He doesn't have any reason to. He's completely in the dark."

"You need to talk to him, Sherlock. Just tell him."

"You know I can't do that, Lestrade." Sherlock looked away. He couldn't bare Lestrade looking at him, pitying him.

The sound of the running water came to a sudden halt causing both Lestrade and Sherlock to glance towards the bathroom. It didn't take long before John appeared with his empty cup of coffee wearing his thick grey dressing gown.

"Ah, Lestrade. You haven't come with anymore work for him to do, have you?" John chuckled.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade before subtly kicking his leg, urging him to respond.

"No, not this time. I just came to uh, thank him for solving the case. It couldn't of been easy." He nodded looking at John.

Sherlock showed Lestrade out, paying Mrs Hudson a visit before he too left to go to the shops just down the road.

John grabbed Sherlocks coat and ran after him hoping to catch up with him. He was going to need it, the weather still appeared to be cold, despite the fact that it was now Spring. Unfortunately, Sherlock had already headed down Baker Street leaving John being admired by a couple of old ladies who whistled at him from the other side of the street. John scurried back inside and hung the coat up where he had found it. However, something caught his eye. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket to find a receipt for a bar near Maidstone. It took John a moment to try and understand why Sherlock would have this. He was so sure that Lestrade has sent him to Reading. John kept ahold of the piece of paper and headed back upstairs to make himself a bit more decent.

Sherlock returned no more than fifteen minutes later and it didn't take John long to start questioning him. He pulled out the receipt and handed it over.

"I knew that you were a sociopath, but I didn't have you down as a liar." John stated.

"Ah, that. I can explain, John." Sherlock finally replied after reading the receipt.

"I'm not expecting you to tell me everything. But why lie, Sherlock?" John sounded more hurt than angry.

"I've never had to explain anything to anyone before. I wasn't on a case. Lestrade has a flat up there. It's where he used to live not long before moving to London. He said that I could use it whenever I needed to escape from London." Sherlock explained.

"Escape from London? Why would you need to do that?" John questioned.

"I just needed to clear my head. Having a memory palace is exhausting at the best of times, John. We didn't have a case so I saw an opportunity to get away for a while."

"Did you leave because of me?" John couldn't stop himself from asking, although, he immediately regretted it.

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead he picked up his violin and played quietly, facing his back to John.

John's head was still spinning and he wasn't as convinced by this as Sherlock, so he decided to go and rest his head for a while. 

John rubbed the sleep from his eyes and was greeted by Mrs Hudson and Sherlock in the living room. Mrs Hudson decided to leave them both to it and went downstairs to make herself busy.

"I didn't leave because of you, John." Sherlock mumbled.

It took John a moment to concentrate on Sherlock's words.

"I left because I was, am trying to deal with something. Something new, something, well, different."

"That doesn't explain why you couldn't just tell me, Sherlock." John took a few steps forward and stood directly in front of him.

"It doesn't matter anyway, really it doesn't." Sherlock avoided the awkward eye contact between them.

"Sherlock, it's me you're talking to."

John had never been particularly fond of bright blue eyes before. But right now, staring into Sherlock's, somehow, blue eyes were his favourite.

"I've done something terrible, really terrible. You see, John, I-" Sherlock turned towards the window. He couldn't bring himself to look at John in the eyes.

"I think I've fallen in love." Sherlock mumbled softly, hoping that John hadn't heard him.

"You have fallen in love?" John was expecting Sherlock to admit to murdering someone. However, this still took John completely by surprise. He always knew that he wasn't some kind of robot, but this was something, even for Sherlock.

John felt an ache rising in his chest. He convinced himself that he didn't know why that was. His whole body just froze. Neither of them knew what to say.

"Are you sure? It might just be a crush or something?" John said hesitantly.

"John, I don't feel, anything. Not since that day. I just don't know what to do or what to think -"

"Slow down, Sherlock. Please. Who is she? You don't have to say, of course you don't. I shouldn't of even asked. I'll go and make us a drink, or, something." John hesitantly began walking towards the kitchen.

"It's you." Sherlock whispered. His voice was soft, so soft that John could have easily mistaken it for the voice inside his head.

He turned around slowly to face Sherlock. Their eyes met and their hearts began to race. Sherlock didn't even think it was possible for his heart to beat so fast without it exploding out of his chest.

"It's wrong. I'm wrong. This isn't normal. I don't feel anything but then you come along and I can't think, I can't sleep."

John remained completely silent. The words racing out of Sherlock's mouth came to a stop as he began to get lost in John's eyes.

Those damn eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen." Sherlock mumbled before racing towards the door.

John didn't speak, he didn't think. He simply grabbed Sherlock's arm, preventing him from leaving the flat.

"You're not going anywhere. We need to make sense of this."

"It doesn't make any sense, John. You're my best friend, you're one of my only friends. I shouldn't feel this way about you." Sherlock exclaimed raising his voice.

"You being here, it feels -"

"Complicated." John interrupted.

"Like home." Sherlock continued.

Sherlock took a couple of steps back. He couldn't stand being so close to John, despite it being the only thing he's wanted for a long time.

"I expect that you probably hate me. I would if I were you."

"Don't be ridiculous. I certainly don't hate you, Sherlock. I just need time to get my head around all of this." John eventually replied.

"I know." Sherlock sighed before walking over towards the window.

It had been a long day. He stood there for a moment in complete silence, trying to decide what to say for the best. John started pacing around the room, trying to do the same thing. So many thoughts were spinning around in his mind.

He couldn't lose him.

"You're the only real thing I've ever had." Sherlock finally said, breaking the silence.   
He couldn't seem to take his eyes off John's.

John didn't think, he just started taking a few steps towards the window, closer to Sherlock. He could almost hear Sherlock's heart beating. It was so fast, so alive. John's eyes left Sherlock's before looking at his chest and then down at the floor.

"I understand, John. I saw it in your eyes when you returned from your date last night. You're not into guys, not like that anyway." John could almost hear Sherlock's voice crack as he spoke, trying his best not to cry in front of him.

"Just shut up for a moment, please. Damn it, Sherlock. I was on a date with a perfectly lovely woman. She was beautiful, funny, kind... There was just one problem.

She wasn't you. Nobody ever comes close to you. Just -"

"...just let me try something"

Their eyes met one last time before John leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against Sherlock's.


	8. This Love Is Ours

John's body was still pressed up against Sherlock's and his lips were softly touching his. He could feel his pulse racing yet the world seemed to have stop spinning. In that moment, it was just them. The kiss obtained more passion as Sherlock gently bit John's lip before falling forwards, losing his balance. John pushed Sherlock up against the wall, causing him to lean in further, well, as humanly possible. Neither of them had noticed the height difference before but it appeared to be a great advantage to them both at this very moment. John moved his hands down and ran his fingers through Sherlock's loose curls. Nothing had ever felt so in place before, nothing had ever felt so right. Gently, John placed his hand around Sherlock's waist before taking a step back, releasing his lips. They both stood looking into each other's eyes for a moment, understanding what had just happened. Sherlock smiled softly, his pupils were dilated and he was short for breath. John's collar had been scuffed up so Sherlock placed his hand gently on his chest before sorting out his top button. Had this just been a moment of madness? Or did John feel the same way? It was hard for Sherlock to tell but he knew that he had never felt this way about anyone, at least not for a long time.

Sherlock was sent to boarding school at the age of 11. He didn't fit in well with any of the other boys. They treated him differently because, well, he was different. He was cleverer, wiser and most importantly, Sherlock was heartless. After being advised by his teachers to try and get along with the other students, he later became friends with another boy, who like Sherlock, was completely alone. Harry and Sherlock were practically inseparable. Nobody could understand Sherlock better than him. It was almost like he could read his mind, his thoughts and feelings. Only they were never returned. Sherlock developed strong feelings towards him. At first, he didn't understand what they were or what they meant. Sherlock was completely in denial. Sherlock was not only incapable of loving another person but he was incapable of being loved himself, or so he thought. Aiming for straight A's, Sherlock was never approached by the head master, until that day. He sat down at his desk and waited impatiently to hear what he had to say.  
'Is my mother sick?' Were the first thoughts that crossed his mind. He only ever went home during the holidays which were soon approaching. However, what Sherlock was told that day caused his heart to shatter into a million tiny pieces. Sherlock was Harry's only friend to say the least and he hadn't once been told about his illness. Harry had passed away in his sleep leaving Sherlock more alone than ever. Sherlock refused to cry. He didn't once let anyone know that he was hurting but deep down he was breaking inside. Ever since that day, Sherlock refused to let himself get close to anyone again. He didn't let anyone get close enough to hurt him. Isolation and loneliness were the two things that completed him. He put up a shield, a wall. It was like a glass wall so people could still see him, but they weren't getting all of him. They weren't getting the real him. Instead they got to know the heartless man, the brain without the heart.

But not John.

John knew the real him. He knew that Sherlock wasn't a heartless monster. Sherlock let him in. He let his guard down for John and only John. For that reason, Sherlock blamed himself. He was so hurt, so angry. How could he let himself fall in love with his best friend? Suddenly all of the passion was replaced by self hatred. Sherlock didn't speak a word before taking off into the night, leaving John standing there by himself.

John had never been in love. Sure he had dated in the past, but he had never really fallen for anyone before. He had never particularly shown any interest in guys before, but that didn't stop him from thinking about Sherlock, or even kissing him. John was so confused. Not just about the kiss, but he began to question everything. He didn't even recognise his own reflection in the mirror. But the more he thought about it, the more he realised that perhaps he wasn't the man that he thought he was. If you lift your right arm, the man behind the glass would lift his left. If you lift your left arm, the reflection would be sure to lift it's right and vice versa. Mirrors don't show your true reflection. Perhaps it had taken John a while to admit his true feelings to himself, but that was okay. He could still taste Sherlock's lips. He placed his finger on his mouth before reality brought him back.

Sherlock came racing back up the stairs to the flat where he found John standing in exactly the same position.

"Sherlock? You didn't leave?" John questioned, still trying to catch his breath.

"I couldn't. I'm tired of running, John. From you, from myself. I want to fight for this.

I want to fight for us.

I don't want to let you go." Sherlock replied, looking at John's messy hair.

John couldn't help but release a smile. Nobody had ever wanted to fight for him or for his happiness. Usually everyone that he cared about would just leave the first chance that they had.

But not Sherlock.

Sherlock's reassurance made him feel safe. He always felt safe when he was here.

"You were right, Sherlock." Were John's only words.

"Right about what?" His tone changed slightly.

"I've never been into guys. I've never really been into anyone before, at least not like that. I don't want to mess this up. I don't want to be the reason that the best thing that's ever happened to me falls apart." John look a few steps forward. He could feel the heat from Sherlock's body.

"I'm clearly no expert, John. But that kiss...it was something. You don't have to be into guys. I was just hoping that perhaps, you were into me." Sherlock admitted.

"I am, Sherlock. I'm just - I don't know. I'm scared, I guess. I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you. I can't."

"And you won't. I'm not going anywhere, John. I'm not ready to say it out loud yet either. Like I said before, -"

"You're the only real thing I've ever had." They both whispered together.

They stopped for a moment. John took his hand and rested it on Sherlock's face. He had been right. You really could cut your hand on his cheekbones. He slowly ran his fingers through his curls once more. Sherlock placed his hand on top of John's and tilted his head. Sherlock's eyes were so dreamy. John could look into them forever and in this very moment, he could think of nothing that he wanted more.

"I don't have to pretend with you because you already get it. You understand me better than I could ever understand myself." Sherlock admitted.

"I tried to deduce your heart the moment that we met." John finally said.

"Did you get anywhere with it?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Because I've been trying to do that for most of my life. The only thing that's ever made my heart race was the thrill of the chase from the work. That was, of course, until we met. Nobody ever said it would be easy, John." He continued.

"Nobody ever said that it would be this hard either." John replied.

The sound of Sherlocks heart beating was the most significant sound in the world at this moment in time.

"I've wanted more minutes in a day ever since we met... So, I'm going to fight for us." Sherlock mumbles into John's ear.

Sherlock closed the gap between them and took hold of John's hand without once taking his eyes off his.

"And what do you deduce about me, Mr Holmes?" He smiled and ran his tongue over his lips.

"I deduce that you'd like to kiss me again." He said softly.

"Actually, you've deduced inaccurately." John whispered back.

"Then correct me, Doctor." Sherlock began leaning in.

"I don't want to kiss you. I need to."

Their lips pressed firmly against each other's and once again, it felt like home.

It was in that moment that they realised that no matter how hard they tried to fight this, the temptation, it was going to be a battle that they both desperately wanted to lose.

Because they fell in love with eachother the way you fall asleep....

slowly and then all at once.


	9. Lost Stars

Sherlock woke up with the biggest smile on his face the following morning. He barely got any sleep. The only thing that he could think about was John and the moment they shared together last night. He could still feel John's lips pressed against his as he ran his hands through his hair. It was late when they eventually called it a night. Nothing other than the kiss happened, but it felt like more than that. It felt as though the whole world had stopped spinning, just for one night.

Sherlock dragged himself out of bed feeling refreshed. It was only 08:03am and Sherlock knew that John would still be asleep in his room. John had always been the one to sleep in every morning which gave Sherlock the chance to make them both some breakfast. He had never felt so alive in his whole life. Of course, taking things slowly could be frustrating at the best of times, but Sherlock had waited his whole life to find this kind of happiness and nothing could possibly ruin that. Sherlock prepared the coffee knowing that the smell would be sure to wake John up in no time. He placed it on the table and sat down to read the morning newspaper. Mrs Hudson would often leave it in the kitchen for them. She was up at dawn most mornings. 'There's nothing like an early start to the day.' She often said. Of course, Sherlock disagreed.

Sherlock could sense John's presence but before he could turn around, John placed his hands in front of Sherlock's eyes before whispering into his ear.

"Guess who?" John slid his hand down and rested it upon Sherlock's shoulder, quietly observing the delicious breakfast that he had prepared for them.

"Good morning, sleepy head." Sherlock replied with a huge grin on his face before placing his hand gently on top of John's.

John took the seat opposite as Sherlock placed the newspaper down on the table.

"Did you sleep well?" Sherlock asked.

"I did yes, thank you. I had the most surreal dream. Well, at least I think it was a dream." John couldn't stop himself from smiling.

"No more nightmares then?" Sherlock questioned.

"No more nightmares."

The truth is, John couldn't remember the last time a nightmare woke him up gasping for air during the night. His sleeping pattern seemed to be back to normal which made him happy and of course, made Sherlock happier.

John reached out for his coffee but found his hand reaching out for Sherlock's. Despite this being completely new to both of them, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

They were abruptly disturbed by Mrs Hudson who waltzed into the kitchen carrying a tray full of freshly baked scones. Sherlock quickly pulled his hand away. Neither of them were quite ready to tell anyone about this, especially Mrs Hudson who was by far their biggest fan.

"There was a woman on the phone for you this morning, John." She said with an enthusiastic tone.

John and Sherlock glanced at one another instantly. Both had a confused expression on their faces, as did Mrs Hudson.

"Oh it's nothing like that, she's from the surgery. She was calling to ask if you could possibly go in tomorrow instead." Mrs Hudson confirmed.

"The surgery? What's happened? Are you sick, John? Why do you need to go to the doctors?" Sherlock's tone changed drastically.

Both Mrs Hudson and John took note of Sherlock's great concern. He stared into John's eyes waiting for an answer.

"I'll call her after breakfast. Thank you, Mrs Hudson." John replied before she left to go back downstairs.

John watched as Mrs Hudson shut the door before taking Sherlock's hand.

"I'm not sick. I actually got a part time job there while you were away. I forgot to mention it, I'm sorry. I was uh, a little distracted." John grinned to himself.

"You had me worried." Sherlock sighed with relief.

"Don't you like working with me?" He continued, feeling a little disheartened.

"I love it more than anything. I don't know, I just wanted something that I could call mine. Something of my own." John rubbed his thumb gently over Sherlock's hand.

"You've got me." Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John before immediately regretting it.

"Thinking out loud, are we?" John teased but he couldn't help but smile at the thought of calling Sherlock 'his.'

Sherlock stood up and walked around the table to John, not once letting go of his hand.

"Maybe I'll stop thinking out loud and do more of this." He whispered before placing his hands on John's face and pulling him closer.

He looked into his eyes, admiring every single one of his flaws before kissing him softly. John grabbed Sherlock's waist, tugging on his dressing gown. Passion took over as John stood up carefully pushing Sherlock down onto the table. He leaned in closer knocking the mug of coffee which spilled all over the place. Neither of them noticed, they were both far too preoccupied. John softly released his lips from Sherlock's and held him in his arms for a moment. He gently pushed Sherlock's curls out of his face so he could see him properly.

"How did I get this lucky?" John whispered, looking deeply into his ocean eyes before allowing their soft lips to touch one more time.

Sherlock and John weren't alone for very long. Mrs Hudson often had a habit of making herself at home in their flat. Neither of them minded, they actually enjoyed her company...well, most of the time anyway. Lestrade didn't seem to have any work for them to do, however, that didn't stop him from showing up. He always tried to make an effort with Sherlock, especially after having married his brother. The wedding already felt like it was a lifetime ago. Mycroft had arranged a meal for them all to celebrate their 5 year anniversary. He had even invited Mrs Hudson much to her delight. Sherlock had already made an excuse as to why he couldn't attend, however, John managed to persuade him to accept the invitation.

"Remember, it's 7pm tomorrow night." Lestrade reminded them.

"Anyone would think that Mycroft had sent you round here to make sure that we're still coming." Sherlock replied.

"Well, it's important to him that you're there, therefore, it's important to me. And do make an effort, Sherlock." Lestrade said, glancing at Sherlock's hair.

John couldn't help but grin to himself. It was partially his fault that Sherlock's curls were all over the place but he would have to keep that to himself for the time being.   
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and agreed to be there on time. It would give him and John the chance to go out properly too. They had both agreed to keep things quiet for a while, however, that didn't mean that they couldn't enjoy themselves.

The rest of the afternoon was quiet. John decided to update his readers on their previous case. He was a couple of weeks behind with the writing. He checked his emails to find a reply from his counsellor, Rachel. John had decided that he didn't think it was necessary for him to attend his sessions anymore. Rachel agreed with him and wished him all the best.

'You're only as strong as your next move.' John was told during their first meeting. At the time he struggled to get up and out of bed in the morning. Everything seemed impossible. It was only recently that John felt the pride of putting himself back together again. Of course, he had a little help from Sherlock. He couldn't of done it without him.   
He no longer missed the army or even the man he used to be. Being with Sherlock had somehow stopped him from overthinking his past and instead, made him dream about his future.

"Are you really starting that new job?" Sherlock asked out of the blue.

"Do you want me to take it?" John replied hesitantly.

"I want you to be happy. So, if taking that job will make you happy, then I think you should take it." Sherlock implied.

"Being with you makes me happy. I just don't want you to get sick of being with me all the time. Both of us having our own jobs, having our own space, might even be a good thing?"

Sherlock nodded his head but his eyes told a different story.

"I could never get sick of being with you...But it would also make the time we did spend together even more precious, right?" Sherlock continued.

"Right. Plus, I'll probably get fired soon anyway for talking about my boyfriend too much." John chuckled sarcastically.

"Your what?" Sherlock sounded confused.

"Oh right. I'm sorry. That came out wrong." John shook his head and continued typing.

"No, it wasn't wrong. I just- Does this mean that we're together? Properly together I mean?"

"Do you want us to be properly together?" John said doing his best impression.

"I talk nothing like that!" Sherlock's jaw dropped open.

"Shall I take that as a yes?" John asked, still chuckling to himself.

"Yes, you should. You should also take the job, John. I know it's what you want, right?" Sherlock said, handing John the phone.

John nodded his head and dialled the number for the surgery.

They never really sat down to watch the television, however, both of them felt like they could do with a relaxing evening. John grabbed the remote off the coffee table and switched it on before flicking through the channels.

"Since when did you get to decide what we're watching?" Sherlock didn't sound amused as John clicked on a documentary about space.

"Since I grabbed the remote control before you did." He replied, shaking his head.

Both of them sat on opposite ends of the sofa. Mrs Hudson usually didn't visit after 8pm but neither of them wanted to risk it just yet. Sherlock subtly glanced over at John who sat laughing at every word that was currently being said. Sherlock didn't understand what was so funny, but he did understand that he couldn't stop himself from falling in love with this man.

Sherlock often found laugher contagious, although he would never admit it. He found love in John's laugh when he was kissing him. He found love in his sense of humour and the way that he did everything to make everyone else happy. He found love in his smile and the way his voice cracked when he cried at sad films. He found love in every single one of his mistakes, his flaws and his passions. He was so lucky to love him.

Sherlock sat there looking at John like he had put the stars in the sky. Maybe he felt scared because John meant more to him than anyone had ever done before.

Meeting him was fate and becoming his friend, well, that was by choice.

But falling in love with him, that was completely out of his control.


	10. You're In My Veins

It must have been mid afternoon by the time Sherlock and John decided it would be a good idea for them to start getting ready for the celebratory meal. John had called the surgery and told them he was unavailable to work and that he would start next week. He was starting to forget why he had persuaded Sherlock to accept their invitation for tonight, but he knew that it was important that they both attended. John opened his wardrobe to find his suit from his date night hanging up. He didn't think it would be appropriate to wear it, despite it being a favourite of his. He pulled out a cloud grey linen shirt and nodded to himself before taking it off the hanger. Just as he was about to put it on, there was a mischievous knock at the door. John tilted his head and placed his shirt down neatly on his bed before answering. He opened it to find Sherlock standing in nothing but a white sheet which hung loosley down to the floor.

"Oh, are you all ready to go out then?" John laughed sarcastically, looking Sherlock up and down.

"No, not yet." Sherlock replied. Understanding sarcasm wasn't something he did particularly well.

"I've come to give you this." He continued, handing John a rectangular shaped box that he had hidden behind his back.

"What is it?" John asked, taking the box from Sherlock's hand.

"Just a little something. I might of borrowed one of yours last month without you realising and I can't seem to find it anywhere." Sherlock looked down at the floor feeling quite guilty about the whole thing.

John opened the box to find a silver tie that was made of silk. He looked up at Sherlock and then back at his wardrobe.

"You can borrow a tie, Sherlock. You didn't need to get this for me." John said taking it out of it's box.

"I wanted to get it for you. Oh, you don't like it, do you? Lestrade advised me to get the blue one but I didn't think you'd like it." Sherlock admitted, taking the tie from John's hand.

"Sherlock, no. I love it. Wait, you went shopping with Lestrade?" John questioned.

"I shouldn't have said that. I should not have said that. I just needed some...advice" Sherlock shook his head feeling embarrassed, causing John to grin at him.

"You're full of surprises, Mr Holmes. I'll wear it tonight for the dinner. You'd better go and get ready yourself. We promised Mycroft that we wouldn't be late, remember?"

Sherlock unfolded the tie and carefully placed it around John's neck before pulling him in and kissing him tenderly. John couldn't resit his soft touch. He placed his hand on top of Sherlock's before noticing the the time on his watch.

"Sherlock! We can't be late!" John blushed.

Sherlock smiled warmly at him before going to get himself dressed.

John appeared in the living room no more than ten minutes later wearing his grey suit and his new favourite tie. He had to admit that he would never have chosen something like that, however, because Sherlock chose it, it made him appreciate it even more. He was followed by Sherlock who was wearing a dark plum coloured shirt and black trousers. His top two buttons were open and his curls fell loosely in place.   
Sherlock started walking towards John before being interrupted by Mrs Hudson. She was wearing a navy blue, floral dress to match her jacket, and a cream hat. Her smile was enough to make both John and Sherlock glance her way.

"Wow, Mrs Hudson." John returned her smile.

"Are we ready? I'll go and get us a taxi." She grabbed her bag and headed downstairs leaving the boys to follow.

Sherlock winked at John before starting to follow Mrs Hudson down the stairs. John grabbed his arm and kissed him passionately one last time.

"So what if we're a little late?" John whispered.

They all got into the taxi and headed off to the restaurant.

As Sherlock had predicted, there weren't many people at the dinner. Of course, Sherlock didn't make much conversation with anyone. He sat in between Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, leaving John sitting next to Mycroft for the evening. Neither of them particularly wanted anyone knowing about their relationship just yet, so they thought it would be best if they kept their distance from eachother. Both of them found it extremely difficult. All John could think about was the moment they would both get back to Baker Street tonight.

Unusually, everyone seemed to be getting on. The drinks were flowing nicely which is probably why Mycroft spent the evening laughing to himself and clinging onto Lestrade's hand. Usually, Sherlock would just ignore them, however, it just made him think about John even more. All he wanted to do was hold his hand, but he couldn't do that. At least not right now. Sherlock's thoughts were soon interrupted by a familiar, yet displeasing voice. He slowly turned his head to find both of his parents standing behind Mycroft. Sherlock could see that John's eyes were focused on him through the corner of his eye.

"I'm so sorry we're late, Mycroft." Mrs Holmes said, kissing his cheek.

"You're here now, that's all that matters." Mycroft replied, slightly slurring his words.

They both walked over towards Sherlock who's face was still a picture. Sherlock stood up calmly and greeted them both. It had been a while since he'd seen them, never mind spend a whole evening with them. Mr Holmes shook Lestrade's hand enthusiastically.

"5 years with this one. You've done well, believe me." He chuckled looking over at Mycroft who didn't seem amused.

Mrs Holmes ran over to Lestrade and hugged him like he was her own.

"Gavin! Congratulations to you both." She smiled taking ahold of Mycroft's hand.

"Mother, how many times? It's Greg!" Mycroft corrected her.

"I know, Mikey! That's what I said." She replied, shaking her head.

John chucked to himself. He finally understood why Sherlock hadn't mentioned his parents before. 

"Is this your new friend, Sherlock?" Mrs Holmes said, smiling towards John.

John, Mycroft and Lestrade all turned to face Sherlock. Growing up, Sherlock had never had anyone to introduce to his parents. There was Harry, of course. However, since they met in boarding school, his parents didn't exactly have the chance to meet him properly. Sherlock stood up, tucking his shirt into his trousers, and looked over towards John.

"Uh, yes. This is John." Sherlock spoke hesitantly.

John quickly stood up and shook both of their hands.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you." John said, smiling warmly at them both.

"Indeed it is. How long have you known eachother?" Mr Holmes asked.

"A few months, right Sherlock?" John asked.

"Right."

The pair stood their smiling at one another for moment before everyone took their seats and decided to order.

The evening was spent with everyone talking and laughing. Sherlock's parents took a particular interest in John. They couldn't understand why Sherlock had never mentioned him properly before. Mycroft had more drinks than he could handle, so it was a good job Lestrade was completely sober. Someone would need to take him home in one piece.

It was about 11pm when everyone decided to call it a night. Lestrade stepped outside to call a taxi for everyone. He was soon followed by Sherlock who wanted to get some fresh air. There was only so much of his family he could take in one night.

"Thanks for coming tonight. How are you?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm fine. Don't feel as though you need to make small talk, Lestrade. It's really not your strongest area." Sherlock replied.

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock?" Lestrade managed to make eye contact with him.

"Where did you get that idea?" Sherlock spoke sarcastically.

"I can see that look in your eyes, Sherlock. I saw the same look in my own eyes when I fell in love."

"Fell in love?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yes, with your brother?" Lestrade reminded him.

"I know who with, Lestrade. I just don't understand what you mean. I'm not in love? Are you sure you haven't had a few too many drinks?" Sherlock tried his best to avoid the topic of conversation.

"You used my old house to get away from London last week, Sherlock. Since when do you leave London without a good reason? Ever since you got back, you've been happier maybe? And don't think I haven't noticed the tie John is wearing. I thought it was for your brother!" Lestrade continued.

"That doesn't mean anything!" Sherlock argued.

"It's me. I know we've never seen eye to eye or anything, but you can trust me. I don't tell your brother everything, you know?" Lestrade grinned.

There was a long pause between them. So many thought were swirling around in Sherlock's head.

"I told him everything." Sherlock finally announced.

"How did he take it? What happened?" Lestrade's eyes widened.

Sherlock smirked at him. He didn't need to say anything else.

Before going away, Sherlock had told Lestrade about his feelings. Or rather he spilled everything to him while he was drunk one night. John hadn't noticed he had left the flat. Sherlock had grabbed the most expensive bottle of whiskey he could find and headed over to Lestrade's office. There was nobody there so Sherlock managed to drink most of the bottle by himself before he was caught. Lestrade found him in the lab later that night. Sherlock was falling in and out of consciousness but that didn't stop him from telling him Lestrade how he really felt about John. That's when Lestrade suggested he went away for a few days to clear his head.

"So, he feels the same way? Lestrade questioned.

"As far as I know, yes. I just don't want to ruin it. He's so important to me, you know?" Sherlock confessed.

The rest of them staggered out of the restaurant, causing both Sherlock and Lestrade to glance over. Lestrade looked at Mycroft before looking back Sherlock.

"I know. He cares about you, Sherlock. Even Scotland Yard can see that." He said, causing them both to smile.

Baker Street was the last stop and so it was almost midnight by the time John and Sherlock returned home. Mrs Hudson almost fell asleep in the taxi back, so there was no doubt she was heading straight to bed. The pair crawled up the stairs to the flat. Spending a whole evening socialising with everyone was tiring to say the least.   
John managed to find his way to his chair, while Sherlock headed straight to the kitchen to make some coffee.

"Your parents are lovely. I don't know why you're so ashamed of them." John teased.

"Tonight wasn't too bad, was it?" He continued.

"You being there made it much easier, I'll admit that." Sherlock said.

"You don't think anyone guessed about us, do you?" John asked.

"Okay, I might have to tell you something. Please don't hate me." Sherlock's tone changed.

John was slightly concerned. He was joined by Sherlock who placed the coffee onto the table, and took the chair opposite.

"Lestrade knows about us. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Sherlock couldn't bare to look at John.

"How?" John said, raising his tone slightly.

"I was drunk before I went away last week and I told him how I felt. He asked me tonight if I'd told you so I had to tell him. I'm sorry, don't be angry with me." Sherlock's voice cracked.

"I am a little angry, Sherlock. I had to sit there tonight and watch you from across the table. Do you get how frustrating it was? I couldn't touch you, I couldn't even kiss you. Your brother and Lestrade got to sit there and be together, properly. When are we going to be able to do that?" John looked up at the ceiling. His eyes began to fill with tears and he couldn't bare for Sherlock to see him like that.

"I'm not angry that Lestrade knows. I'm angry because I should of told you how I felt a long time ago."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to John's chair. He gently placed his hand on his face.

"Look at me, John. I used to think that it mattered, what I said to you and how I said it. But the point is, I told you. We were finally strong enough to open up to eachother. If you want to be together properly, then we can tell people. I'll admit, I'll miss having you all to myself though." Sherlock grinned.

"You've got me all to yourself right now, haven't you?"

"I have indeed." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You really need to learn how to stop talking." John mumbled.

"I'm working on it."

John pulled Sherlock closer to him before roughly kissing his lips. Sherlock grabbed his tie and quickly began taking it off. He threw the tie over his head before undoing the buttons to his shirt. It was almost like there wasn't enough time in the world as they both gasped for air. They suddenly stopped what they were doing and looked into each other's eyes.

"We can wait, if that's what you want?" Sherlock said, taking John's hand and holding it in his.

John leaned in closer before whispering into Sherlock's ear.

"Actually, this is exactly what the doctor ordered."

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls and pulled him closer. He could feel his heavy breathing against his skin as he continued unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.   
Sherlock grabbed John's waist and began tugging his shirt off. He ran his hands over his body. His skin was so soft. He was so lucky. Sherlock has realised that most of his weight was on John. He stood up suddenly.

"I didn't mean to hurt you." He mumbled.

"Stop talking." John whispered.

He stood up and found the height difference even more noticeable as he leaned in once more. There was so much heat and passion as Sherlock carefully pushed John up against the wall. Neither of them were fully dressed at this point. Sherlock glanced over at his bedroom door before looking back into John's eyes. He took a step back before John grabbed his hand, taking him into the bedroom. 

They awoke the following morning wrapped up between the sheets in Sherlock's bed. John found himself lying in the detective's arms, his head against his chest. They lay there for long time, trying to remember a time when they hadn't dreamt of this very moment. John looked up to find Sherlock's warm eyes looking down at him.

"Last night was, uh - what we did, it was." Sherlock couldn't find the right words to express how he felt.

"It was perfect." John finished his sentence, hoping that's where he was going with it.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from smiling.

"John. There is something I need to tell you. I've wanted to for a long time now and I've never known how -"

John kissed Sherlock's lips gently, interrupting him.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes." He whispered.

Sherlock took John's hand and placed it in his. He lay there for a moment, gently running his thumb over John's hand. John could see that Sherlock's eyes were filling up.

"What's the matter?" He asked, sitting up and turning to face him.

"Don't say that if you don't mean it." Sherlock spoke softly.

"I've never meant anything more. You're the most real thing I've ever had." John repeated.

He grabbed his shirt and decided to go and make the morning coffee. However, Sherlock reached out for his hand, pulling him back down onto the bed.

"I love you too." Sherlock whispered, before pushing his hair out of his face and gently kissing his forehead.


	11. Broken Strings

Spring had always been John's favourite time of the year. The fresh, crisp air blissfully danced through London and the blossom had already started to bloom. The sun was finding it's strength once again and there was nothing that John enjoyed more at this time of the day than walking the streets of London. He had never been a morning person, but that didn't stop him feeling a sense of happiness as he watched the early sun rise.

He arrived at work just before 8 o'clock and was soon greeted by the familiar sense of dread as he started his shift. John had only been working at the surgery for the best part of two weeks, however, it was clear to him that this wasn't where his heart was set.   
The morning appeared to pass slowly, much to John's horror. He only had two patients left to see before he was finally able to go home. However, Mrs Green certainly was a woman with many words. She was a great admirer of John.

John staggered through the door into 221B and collapsed onto the stairs before closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall. He took a deep breath in and embraced the silence that surrounded him. Eventually, John entered the flat to find a petite woman sitting by the kitchen table. She had fair, golden brown hair that had been pinned back into a pony tail and she wore a pink floral blouse that complimented her rosy cheeks. She had green eyes. That churning, passionate green that the ocean turns during a storm, and the colour of the forest after it rains.

"Molly, are you still there?" Sherlock's voice echoed.

"Yeah I'm here. There's nothing, Sherlock. Absolutely nothing." She replied with a gentle tone.

Just at that moment, Sherlock appeared to find John looking slightly concerned by the door.

"Ah, never mind. That will be all for today, Molly. We'll figure something out tomorrow." Sherlock took the samples from the kitchen table and placed them carefully in the fridge.

It appeared that the room that they once called a kitchen had been converted into Sherlock's very own lab.

Molly grabbed her belongings and smiled warmly at John briefly before letting herself out.

"Molly?" John questioned.

"My new assistant. You were gone. I saw my opportunity."

Sherlock walked eagerly over to John and softly kissed his forehead with absolutely no hesitation.

"It seems our kitchen has gone too by the looks of things. And actually, I'm quite offended. I've only been gone for two weeks. You don't need an assistant, Sherlock. You just like the company." John shook his head and hung his coat up.

"I knew that teaching you a couple of deduction skills would come back and haunt me." Sherlock continued clearing up the kitchen mess, leaving John to go and rest his head for a while. Early mornings didn't agree with him, despite the temptation of natures beauty.

John slept for much longer than he had originally intended. He awoke early the following morning to find Sherlock's absence. Ever since they had told Mrs Hudson, John barely spent any time sleeping in his own room. He rested his hands on the sheet and glanced over at the clock that was resting on the bedside table.   
'Where is Sherlock?' John couldn't remember him coming to bed last night. He had slept right through since late yesterday afternoon. Perhaps he was still working on his new case with Molly?

John opened his laptop to find the unfinished blog piece he had started writing only last week. He thought it would be an appropriate time to update his readers. However, he didn't once mention Sherlock's name. Some of his most recent cases had caught the attention of the press, which is exactly what Sherlock had hoped to avoid. Lestrade was used to it by now, but Sherlock wasn't apart of the police force. He was the worlds only consulting detective.

John glanced at the time and date that had been inked on his hand. Despite no longer attending his counselling sessions, John had been asked to go back for a review. Just to ensure Rachel that everything was okay. His appointment was due later on that day, and much to John's surprise, he was rather looking forward to going back.  
Mrs Hudson entered the room carrying a teapot which she placed on the kitchen table. Standing on the kitchen chair, she managed to grab two mugs from the top shelf, before making herself and John some freshly boiled tea. The two of them rarely sat down together without putting up with Sherlock's never ending commentary. It was pleasant, but John could sense that she had some questions for him. Ever since Mrs Hudson had found out about Sherlock and John's new relationship, she couldn't help but smile whenever she was around them. Of course, Sherlock was the one to eventually tell her with much persuasion from John. She was advised to sit down in John's chair so immediately she knew that something was up. Sherlock eventually took his seat, and with John standing by his side, he finally found the courage to tell her. Telling Mrs Hudson wasn't the difficult part. However, something in Sherlock's mind told him that saying it out loud would suddenly make it all real. John placed his hand on top of his for reassurance before smiling at Mrs Hudson. Her eyes widened as she jumped up from her seat in amazement. She didn't know who to hug first so she placed her arms around them both and squealed in shock.

"Is Sherlock about this morning?" Mrs Hudson asked curiously, gazing at their bedroom door.

John subtly shook his head.

"I don't know where he is, sorry to disappoint you." He confirmed.

There was nothing better than a boiling hot cup of tea in the morning. Even during the spring when it wasn't necessarily cold, it was still the perfect start to the day.

"Are you working today?" She asked enthusiastically.

"No, I'm off for a couple of days. I'd help Sherlock with the new case if I knew where he was. Did you see him leave last night?" John questioned.

"No, dear. I thought he was up here with you." She smiled gracefully to herself.

Lestrade was the one to finally tell Mycroft. Neither John or Sherlock were particularly keen on the idea of telling him, so who better than his own husband to break the news. Mycroft wasn't at all surprised. In fact, nobody was. It was just a matter of time to everyone else.

"Aren't you seeing Rachel again today?" Mrs Hudson sipped her tea.

"It's just a final appointment. You know, just to make sure that I'm okay."

"Oh dear, I'm sure you're more than okay. What with you and Sherlock." She couldn't help but chuckle to herself.

Just at that moment, Sherlock strolled into the living room carrying a large bunch of flowers. Mrs Hudson glanced over to John and burst out with excitement.

"Ah, you're here. Just the person that I'm looking for." He announced mischievously with a cheeky grin on his face.

"Flowers? I know you love me Sherlock, but since when did we start doing flowers?" John couldn't help but laugh at the gesture.

"Oh, they aren't for you, John!" Sherlock winked at him before walking over to Mrs Hudson.

"Happy Mother's Day." He said sweetly with a meaningful smile.

Her whole face lit up with happiness. For the first time in forever, Mrs Hudson was completely speechless.

"Oh, Sherlock! I don't know what to say! That's so sweet of you. But it's Mother's Day?"

"I know it's Mother's Day. You don't take me for an idiot, do you?" He continued to smile at her.

"But, Sherlock, I'm -"

"Listen. A mother is someone who looks after you, who protects you and loves you unconditionally. You've always been there for me. So, if I can't buy you flowers on Mother's Day, then who can I buy flowers for?"

Mrs Hudson's eyes filled with tears. She stood up on her tiptoes and placed her arms around Sherlock before hugging him tightly.

Sherlock had never been particularly close to his own mother, or father for that matter. Being the older sibling, and certainly the wiser of the two, Mycroft had always appeared to have a much closer relationship with their parents. It was somewhat understandable given Sherlock's childhood. Alone was all Sherlock ever had before they sent him off to boarding school. They decided to home school Mycroft. What difference that made, well, Sherlock will never know. 

Waiting for Rachel brought back the routine John found himself in once he had returned from the army. It felt only like it was yesterday since he was last here, staring at the same four walls. The sound of the clock ticking filled the empty silence that surrounded him. John couldn't understand why he was so nervous. His stomach turned as Rachel entered the waiting room, welcoming him into her office.

"You're looking well, John." She announced encouragingly.

John simply nodded his head and made himself comfortable in the chair closest to the far window.

"How have you been? I've been reading your blog, actually. Impressive, I must say." She seemed to be proud of him.

"Thank you! Surprisingly, I'm enjoying writing it. The blog has been a great distraction."

"And what would it be that you're distracting yourself from exactly?" Rachel questioned with a concerning tone.

"You're no longer missing the army. You told me that yourself, John." She continued.

"Apart of me will always miss the army, there's no doubt about it. It's like breaking your arm. It's going to take a while to heal, but even when it does, it's still going to throb every time it rains." John confessed.

John saw the encouragement in Rachel's sweet chocolate, brown eyes. He was feeling extremely agitated and he couldn't explain to himself why that was. Rachel carefully placed her hand on John's arm.

"Tell me anything you feel comfortable talking about, John."

John took a glimpse around the room, just to ensure that they were completely alone.

"Sherlock." Was the only thing John managed to say.

"Oh the guy you moved in with? I remember, John. What about him?" She asked curiously.

Eventually, with time on his side, John told Rachel about the recent events in 221B between himself and Sherlock. Not in detail, but he told her enough.

"I'm just....confused, I guess?" John signed.

"About Sherlock? Your feelings?"

John nodded his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"I've never dated a guy before. I've never so much as even had feelings for one. I've never been in love, I don't know how to be in love. How am I supposed to explain this to Sherlock when I can't even understand it myself." John questioned why he had even showed up to their meeting, however, he couldn't stop himself from opening up. He trusted Rachel. And right now, he didn't know who else he could talk to about this.

"So, you're bisexual, John? That's okay. You don't have to label yourself. You don't have to explain anything, to anyone. The important thing is, do you love him?" Rachel asked warmly.

"I just thought I would have known sooner, you know? Were there any signs that I missed? I'm like a different person." John's eyes moved up and found Rachel's.

John's feelings for Sherlock were driving him crazy, but in reality, John didn't want to be sane. He couldn't be.

"John. People make lists inside their head, of what they're looking for in a lover. Brown hair, green eyes, a sense of humour that makes you laugh like you mean it, a sharp mind and a warm heart. The reality of it is, people aren't lists. Loving can hurt sometimes. You're not a different person, you're still you, John. This is just apart of who you are. It doesn't define you as a person. People who think they know what they're looking for are just fooling themselves. Nobody knows what they're looking for. Not until that person is standing right in front of them.

So, I'll ask you again, John. Do you love him?"

John released a fragile smile.

"With every broken piece of me."


	12. Alone Together

"NO NO NO! He's lost so much blood. They've taken him down to surgery now. How could I even let this happen. I promised I'd look after him."

He paled, his heart was racing. He didn't understand, as if his brain short-circuited and needed to be rebooted. Around him, everything was in fast-forward while he was motionless in the middle of it all. How was he going to be able to look his brother in the eyes?

12 hours earlier

Waking up in Sherlock's arms was still the most surreal yet beautiful start to John's morning. His heart seemed to pound faster with every look, every kiss. Being with him made John feel safe. It was like sitting in a car listening to the pouring rain and suddenly going under a bridge. During that moment, the rain stops and the world is peaceful, almost completely silent. Then before you know it, you're back in the real world, and the rain is falling harder than it did the first time.

Sherlock was his bridge.

John looked so deeply into his eyes that he could almost see their future together. It made him feel safe and protected. The kiss was gentle, but captivating, a mixture of sweet candy and salty ocean water. Their mesmerised lips pressed together time after time, and their ragged breathing and dancing tongues was almost like bringing a fiery heat to the cold ocean air. With just the two of them there, the rest of the world seemed to disappear. Just for a moment, but it was enough.

Sherlock often walked around the flat in nothing but his white bed sheet. Even before himself and John became an item, he didn't have any shame. He casually strolled into the living room to find John reading the paper.

"Technically, I don't need to walk around with anything on. It's not like anybody would disturb us." He said mischievously.

"Urm.." John's eyes widened as he nodded towards the figure who was standing by the door.

"Lestrade! Oh, for gods sake. What are you doing here?" Sherlock snapped, looking back at John as if to say that he should have warned him.

Lestrade glanced at John before the pair burst out with laughter.

"I'm sorry. I'll definitely remember to knock next time. Actually, I need to speak to you about something that was sent to us at the station earlier this morning."

"I'll be right with you!" Sherlock shouted from the bedroom. He reappeared wearing an ocean blue, cotton shirt and his casual black work trousers.

They all took a seat and Lestrade handed over an old, unused mobile phone. Sherlock inspected the object with great determination to deduce something other than the fact that Leatrade hadn't gotten anywhere with it. The phone was roughly three years old, inexpensive, due to the scratches and scuffed up edges. It switched on easily and Sherlock was able to view the only message on the device due to the lack of a password.   
He looked back up at John and then over to Lestarde.

"And this was left for me?" Sherlock questioned.

Lestrade nodded his head to confirm.

John reached out his hand and took the phone from Sherlock. The unknown number had instructed that Sherlock would need to meet him later on that night. There were no directions, no address, just a time.

"Do you think this is linked to the case we had last week?" Sherlock asked.

"Better. Molly actually suggested that this could even be the killer himself. Psychopaths do get incredibly bored after a while."

"They do that, don't they?" Sherlock had a huge grin on his face.

"Sherlock, you're not actually going to meet this person. You can't put yourself in danger like that. I won't let you." John interrupted.

"Of course I can! It will be perfectly safe. Lestrade will be with me the whole time. We'll be fine, John."

Sherlock could sense that John was worried. He knew that he was only looking out for him but this was something that he needed to do.

"Listen, Molly and I are so close to finding him. If she's right and this is the killer we've been after, it will all finally come to an end, John."

John knew his in heart that nothing he could say would be enough to stop Sherlock from going along with it.

"Trust me?" Sherlock said, looking deeply into his eyes. Almost as if Lestrade wasn't there.

"Fine. I trust you. But you'd better look after him!" John gazed at Lestrade.

Sherlock spent most of the afternoon down at the station with Lestrade. He had carelessly left his phone on the kitchen table. Several messages had come through within the last half an hour alone. John couldn't resit the temptation of checking it, just to ensure that it wasn't anything serious. To his surprise, he found four texts from Mycroft's number. Without hesitating, John grabbed his coat and headed over to see him.

Mycroft opened the door, wearing his smart grey work trousers and a cotton cream shirt that had been nearly tucked in. Even on his day off, Mycroft certainly did dress to impress. This was the first time John and Mycroft had seen each other since John's relationship with Sherlock had been announced, however, he hadn't realised that until it was too late to turn back around.

"John. What a surprise!" He exclaimed before allowing him to walk through the front door and straight into the lounge.

The house was exactly how John would imagine Mycroft's house to be like. Everything looked opulent from the gleaming wood floors covered in loving throw rugs to the sheer curtains billowing like mist on the wall of floor to ceiling windows that faced a slope and then a sunset. The furnishings were old but had a story to tell, so they had to be antiques. Against the wall rested a delicate settee that sat next to a more heavy bookcase and a fireplace that mated with the walls. Of course, it had Lestrade's personal touches to it which added a homely feel.

John held up Sherlock's phone before questioning Mycroft's desperate attempt to contact his brother.

"Is he in some kind of trouble, Mycroft?" John asked.

"Trouble? No, of course not. I'm just checking up on him...."

"Checking up on your brother? Or Lestrade?" John questioned.

"I just don't want Lestrade doing something that he'll later regret. His job is far more dangerous that he believes it to be. I'm only looking out for him." Mycroft said with a concerned expression on his face.

"You know about the text that was sent to Sherlock, don't you?" John didn't even sound surprised.

"I work with the government, John. What do you deduce?"

"They'll be careful, Mycroft. Don't you trust him?"

"Don't be so absurd! Of course I do. I just don't trust the criminal classes. You can hardly blame me."

"I promise, they'll both be okay."

Inside, John was absolutely petrified. He didn't want Sherlock to put himself at risk either. But this was his job, and John was going to have to learn how to live with that. Even if it meant stepping aside and watching him risk his life for his own happiness.

It was dark when John returned home to find Sherlock and Lestrade siting anxiously in the living room.

"Finally! Where have you been?" Sherlock sighed with relief.

"Oh, it doesn't matter. Are you going now? Is it time?" John asked worryingly.

"It's time. I just wanted to see you before we left. I know you're not comfortable with me going. But I promise, we'll be okay. Both of us. There's two of us and only one of him. Besides, we've got the force tracking our every movements. We received directions earlier this afternoon." Sherlock sounded much more hesitant than he has preciously don't this morning.

John took ahold of his hand.

"Be safe, please, Sherlock. For me."

Sherlock kissed his lips softly and then rested his forehead against his, looking deeply into his eyes. Almost as if he too could see their future together.

"Always."

John watched as they both left the flat, leaving him alone in the darkness of the room.

He didn't know how long they were going to be gone for. Mrs Hudson kept John company most of the night. They sat in the living room, too anxious to do anything other than wait for some news. John clutched onto the phone, replaying Sherlock's words in his mind. It was roughly 1am when John started to doze off. However, he was suddenly awoken by the loud ringing that the phone made.

"Sherlock? Sherlock is that you?" John's voice cracked as panic took over his whole being.

"Get yourself down to the hospital, John. Something's happened." An officer spoke sympathetically on the other end of the phone.

John's body froze. He refused to listen to anything else the officer had to say. He didn't need to tell Mrs Hudson anything, she knew something was wrong by the pain she saw in his eyes.

They rushed to the hospital not knowing what to expect. All John knew was that he couldn't lose him. Not now. Not ever.

He pushed his way past the crowd of people surrounding the entrance and headed straight to the desk at reception.

"John." A familiar voice shouted from behind.

"Molly? What's happened? Where is he?" John couldn't fight his emotions.

"They haven't brought them to the hospital yet. Anderson called telling me just to get straight here. I've called Mycroft, telling him to do the same. I don't know what's happened, John."

Her face was in sheer shock. Usually no news would mean good news, but the fear of the unknown was most definitely worse.

Paramedics rushed into the hospital, wheeling someone straight into theatre from the ambulance. John couldn't see if he recognised anyone. There were too many people blocking his view.

"SHERLOCK! Excuse me! Sorry, I need to get through." John pleaded, trying to make his way to the entrance. He had never been claustrophobic before, but in that almighty swell of humanity, John felt the panic rise in his chest. The crowd seemed to have a life of it's own. By the time he had managed to get through, the door to the lift had closed. Fear took over his whole body as he placed his hands over his head not knowing what to do. John just stood there like a statue, a monument frozen for eternity. The fear he felt was a being in itself because it wasn't just in him, it was all around him.

"John.......John! JOHN!" The mumble coming from the crowd behind him grew louder with relief.

He turned his body, hoping that he wasn't being tricked by the voices inside his head.  
Across the room, Sherlock stood wrapped in a thick, orange blanket with a paramedic standing by his side. Without any hesitation, he ran over to John and tightly wrapped his arms around him. Sherlock could feel the strength in John's arms as he tightly clung onto his waist, to trap him in his neverending warmth. As John embraced him, he could feel the life in his body, the blood pumping in his veins, and the warm breath coming off his lips.

"I thought you were -"

"Shushh. It's okay. I'm okay." Sherlock whimpered, gasping for breath.

The two of them held each other closely for a moment, appreciating every second that passed. Eventually, they eased away from each others warmth, causing John to notice Sherlock's cold, shaky, blood soaked hands.

"What happened? Sherlock, what happened? Did you catch him?"

"We got him. But -"

Sherlock pulled away and shook his head in anger and great disbelief. He choked on the words he couldn't bring himself to say.

"Lestrade was stabbed." Not even Sherlock could deny his emotions.

"He was stabbed, John! I was supposed to protect him!" Sherlock punched the wall in frustration. Anger rose from within his body.

John grabbed his arm and pulled him closer.

"What happened? How?" He couldn't quite believe what was happening.

"The sirens panicked the killer. He just lost control and came straight for me. At first I didn't see it, but then he pulled the knife from his pocket. And -"

"He tried to attack you? Sherlock, wha -"

"Lestrade grabbed him from behind, trying to push me out of the way. The police got there and arrested him. It was only after they had left that I saw the blood. He collapsed onto the ground in one slow motion. I didn't know what to do, John. It all happened so quickly, I was so scared. I held him in my arms and screamed for help." Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder. He was shaking uncontrollably, his voice trembled with fear.

He lifted his head and started pacing agitatedly.

"NO NO NO! He's lost so much blood. They've taken him down to surgery now. How could I even let this happen. I promised I'd look after him."

He paled, his heart was racing. He didn't understand, as if his brain short-circuited and needed to be rebooted. Around him, everything was in fast-forward while he was motionless in the middle of it all. How was he going to be able to look his brother in the eyes?

"Shush, I've got you. You're safe." John reassured him.

"Mycroft is on his way, Sherlock. It's not your fault, do you hear me? You couldn't of done anymore. Look at me." John gently lifted Sherlock's head up so that he was looking into his eyes. Their future was now surrounded by fear and pain.

"Lestrade will pull through. I know he will." John tired to remain calm.   
Sherlock had never felt so fragile, so lost.

"When you're weak, I'll be your strong, remember? I promise, it's going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.

Do you trust me?"

Looking into John's eyes, Sherlock managed to copy his breathing pattern and steady his heart rate back to normal.

"I trust you. I completely trust you."


	13. Fuel To Fire

It felt like the longest night in history as John sat waiting impatiently with Sherlock to hear any news. The hallway had as much personality as the rest of the hospital. The floor was slate grey and the walls dove. Above, the ceiling was made from those polystyrene squares laid on a grid-like frame. The light was far too bright for their eyes after the darkening gloom outside. Children were crying in the distance. John felt like doing the same thing, but instead he was completely numb.

Molly was the one to eventually call Mycroft before deciding to go home to get some rest, however, there was still no sign of him.

"Maybe we should call him again, Sherlock? What do you think?" John questioned.

Sherlock's blank expression didn't alter. He was no longer frustrated or even angry. He was numb and he had completely disconnected from reality. John reassuringly placed his hand on top of Sherlock's, abruptly catching his attention. He eventually turned to face John, his wide open eyes reflected everything and saw nothing.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Sherlock mumbled without an ounce of emotion.

How was it even possible to feel everything and nothing all at once?

"It doesn't matter. I'm just going to make a call, okay?" John released his hand and headed for the emergency exit. He glanced back one last time to find Sherlock still staring into space. He wanted to fix him, he wanted so badly to save him from the demons inside his head, only John didn't know how, and it was breaking him.

John let the phone ring until it reached the answering machine. Mycroft should be there by now, he knew that something wasn't right. John didn't want to abandon Sherlock, but he needed to find Mycroft. If anything happened to Lestrade, John knew that Mycroft would never forgive himself for not being there for him.

John was so tangled in his thoughts that he didn't notice Mrs Hudson slowly approaching him carrying two cups of coffee.

"Have you heard anything about Lestrade, John?" Her voice was still trembling.

"Uh, no, not yet. He's still in theatre. They'll come and find us when they've finished." John spoke with uncertainty.

"And Sherlock?" She added.

John's eyes sunk to the floor. He couldn't bare to look at her. Despite knowing that Sherlock was safe, he continued to feel the pain growing inside his chest. John felt completely helpless, and for the first time in a long time, he felt alone. He couldn't bare to sit and watch as Sherlock suffered in silence.

Mrs Hudson placed the coffee down on the window sill and comfortingly placed her arms around him.

"We'll look after him, John. He'll always have you and me." She spoke softly.

"What if that's not enough this time? I feel like I'm losing him. Mrs Hudson, please, I can't let that happen." His voice was so fragile.

"The Sherlock we know and love is still there, John. He's been through an awful lot. It must have been absolutely terrifying for him. I can't begin to imagine what's going on inside that head of his right now. Just give him time. He knows you're there for him."   
John knew that Mrs Hudson was right.

She was always right.

"Would you mind sitting with him? I need to find Mycroft." John asked kindly.  
"Of course I will. You don't even have to ask. I'll take this coffee to him, he'll need it."

John squeezed her hand for reassurance before taking off.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the coffee. It's got to be black with two sugars. He won't drink it otherwise." He reminded her before heading into the night.

John searched the flat and the station without having any luck. He needed to find Mycroft, surely Lestrade would be out of theatre soon. He arrived at his house to find the door on the latch. Slowly, John walked into the lounge to find the house had been turned upside down. He almost didn't recognise the place, the mirror had shattered and the fire was slowly burning out.   
The curled up figure on the floor finally caught John's attention. He was so delicate.

"Mycroft? What's happened here? You need to get down to the hospital, now, Mycroft." John sounded sympathetically.

"I can't do it, John. I'm not strong enough. He's got you and Sherlock there for him.  
He doesn't need me." His voice was soft, gentle. B r o k e n.

"I know this is unimaginably difficult...but he needs you. When he wakes up, he's not going to want me, or Sherlock, or even Mrs Hudson. He's going to need you, Mycroft. No matter how hard this gets, you've got to be there for him. You'll hate yourself if you're not. Trust me on that one, I know." John tried his best to stay strong for him.

"And what if he doesn't wake up?" Mycroft's eyes found John's. Only then could John see the tears in his eyes and frailness in his soul. 

"Don't you dare talk like that, do you hear me? Sherlock is a complete mess at the hospital. He thinks you hate him for letting you down, Mycroft. I can't stand to see him like this, I don't know what to do." John made room on the sofa before sitting down.

"The only person I hate right now is myself. I should never have let him go." Mycroft's head fell into his hands.

John carefully lowered himself onto the floor. He shuffled closer to Mycroft before taking a deep breath in. He had never been any good at this.

"I've spent most of my life, waiting. I didn't know what I was waiting for exactly, but I was looking for something. Or rather, I was looking for someone. I answered that call tonight, not knowing what to expect. When the officer told me to get down to the hospital, I thought that was it. I thought that I'd lost your brother, the person I've been looking for, my whole life. Honestly, I'd never been so terrified, Mycroft. Even after all that time in Afghanistan. Living with the uncertainty of not knowing when you'd take your last breath, the fear of never returning home. Nothing, nothing, comes close to the fear and the pain that I felt in my chest when I thought I had lost him. I can only imagine how you're feeling right now. And whether you like it or not, I'm going to be there for you, Mycroft. My sister walked out on me when I most needed her, I'm not going to do that to you.

I'm not going to be that person."

John looked up at the ceiling, trying his best to conceal his emotions. He didn't want to cry, but that certainly didn't stop him.

"Sherlock's lucky to have you. Don't tell him I said that. I owe a lot to you, John. Thank you." Mycroft could barely form a smile, but he appreciated John's words all the same.

John and Mycroft managed to arrive at the hospital just after 2.35am. The idea of sleep hadn't crossed anyone's minds. They made their way to the private waiting room where they had been instructed to wait. There, they found Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. With the blanket still wrapped around him, Sherlock had rested his head on Mrs Hudson shoulder. He still looked broken, but Mrs Hudson had managed to bring him comfort. As the door opened, he quickly jumped up and looked straight at Mycroft. Mrs Hudson and John decided it would be best if they left them to it, and decided to go and find some more coffee. They were certainly going to need it.

Neither Mycroft or Sherlock knew what to say. Mycroft sat down and waited for Sherlock to do the same.

"Do you remember that time, at the dentist, when you were too scared to sit in the chair? Mum and dad asked me if I could take you. You had an absolute fit, screamed the whole place down. You asked me to go in with you, remember? I didn't once leave your side."

Sherlock nodded his head. He could remember it like it was yesterday.

"The point is, I was there for you before and I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you. Nothing will ever change that. I'm not angry with you, Sherlock. I could never be angry with you. You're my brother."

Neither of them had ever had much past experiences when it comes to talking about their true feelings. To their surprise, it wasn't as difficult as they had once thought.

"And now it's my turn to be there for you."

Sherlock glanced his way, releasing an overdue, sincere smile.

"John came to find me. I was sitting at home feeling sorry for myself, trying to make sense of this. It doesn't feel real. You read about accidents, hear them on the news. Apart of you doesn't believe they could ever happen because you don't think the world could be so cruel. You struggle to understand the pain they must be feeling. The torture of waiting to hear some news."

Sherlock didn't know how to comfort him. He had never been any good at understanding anyone's emotions and feelings, including his own. The suspense was killing them both.

"I didn't get a chance to congratulate you. Lestrade told me about you and John. I can hardly say that I'm surprised." Mycroft said, changing the topic.   
He needed to take his mind off everything.

However, the topic of conversation made Sherlock feel slightly uncomfortable. He knew he couldn't avoid it, so he tried to remained silent.

"I'm happy for you, honestly I am. I just want you to be careful, Sherlock."

"Be careful? In what way?" Sherlock snapped with a confused expression on his face.  
"I won't get hurt. John would never do that to me." He simply shook his head.

"I'm not suggesting for one moment that he would. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, bother dear. Love changes you as a person in ways you can't possibly imagine."

The room went silent, however, the demons inside Sherlock's head made it impossible for him to notice. It took him a moment, but eventually he responded.

"I tortured myself for so long. I thought that losing Harry all those years ago was some kind of punishment. The voices inside my head told me that I didn't deserve any happiness, and of course, I believed them. When I met John, I wasn't just unloved and unloving, I was an enemy of love. He chased away the darkness and saw the man I hope to be. I don't remember the exact moment I fell in love with him. But I do remember falling through time and space and stars and sky and everything in between. I fell for days and weeks and what felt like lifetime across lifetimes. I fell until I forgot I was falling."

John and Mrs Hudson soon reappeared with no news. Sherlock immediately stood up and walked over to John. Without any hesitation, he placed his arms around him and held him tightly. Nobody said anything because nothing needed to be said.

John saved him. It was as simple and as real as that.

"Mycroft? I'm Doctor Adams." A tall, broad man entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Everyone stood up instantly. The suspense was now worse than ever.

"Your husband is in recovery. We've managed to stop the bleeding - for now."  
The doctor couldn't help but sound hesitant.

"For now?" Mycroft's relief disappeared at once.

"Mr Holmes, your husband was lucky to make it into the ambulance in one piece. The wound has caused severe internal bleeding. There's only so much we can do at this stage. We're going to closely monitor his progress over the next 12 hours, but I can't be making any promises at this stage. I'm sorry, I know how difficult this must be for you. We're doing our best. Hopefully, you can see him shortly. I'll send someone to come and get you when he's regained consciouses." He said with a sympathetic yet uncertain tone.

Mycroft fell back down onto the seat. Mrs Hudson rushed over and comfortingly placed her hand on his shoulder.

John and Sherlock's eyes found their way to each other. They could only see the fright and consternation as fear filled the empty space.

Hope. That's all they could do.


	14. Caring Is Not An Advantage

It wasn't long until London was greeted by dawn once again. Brilliant gold and orange hues bled like fire in the east over the rivers and beyond the city. The first slither of the sun peeked over the skyline in a radiant, white form. Gradually it raised, a defined circle in a vibrant backdrop.

Everyone except Mycroft had gone home to get as much sleep as possible. Knowing Lestrade was in recovery had somehow settled everyone's minds, despite the uncertainty of knowing whether he would wake up. With a quick change of clothes and one too many mugs of black coffee, Sherlock and John returned to the hospital. There they found Mycroft dozing off in the same chair they had left him in only a few hours earlier.

"Mycroft? Why don't you go home and get some rest. We'll stay here and I promise we'll call if we hear anything. Please? You need to look after yourself too." John instructed, handing him a flask of coffee. He couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"John's right. I'll call if he makes anymore progress." Sherlock confirmed, taking a seat. No amount of sleep in the world could cure the tiredness they all felt.

Mycroft eventually left the hospital, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.   
The anticipation of waiting for some news was exhausting.   
John carefully rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. They were both half asleep, weary with the burden of long-closed eyes, dead on the inside but subconsciously awake.

"He'll be okay, won't he?" John asked, in need of being reassured. He couldn't help but think the worst. It was his own worst habit. 

Sherlock released the air from within his lungs, gradually and then all at once.

"I don't know, John." He mumbled hesitantly to himself.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, you always know." John's attempt at making conversation wasn't well received due to the lack of sleep and abnormally large doses of caffeine.

"What do you expect me to say? I don't know, John. I don't have the answer, not this time. He's lying in there because of me. He's there because I made a mistake. It should have been me, not him." Sherlock snapped with frustration. The words danced off his tongue and echoed, bouncing off the walls that surrounded them.

"Don't, Sherlock. Don't say that, please." John sighed to himself.

"Why? Because it's the truth?" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Because I don't want to hear it. I can't hear it. Do you have any idea what it was like, for me? Or do my feelings simply not matter? I thought I had lost you." John yelled angrily lifting his head and marching towards the door.

Sherlock's head fell between his knees. His thoughts were so tangled. So messed up.

"I didn't mean to worry you, John. You have to believe me. I couldn't do that to you." Sherlock's tone appeared to be more meaningful.

"It's too late for that now, Sherlock. You get hurt, I get hurt. That's how this works. But I guess you wouldn't understand that. All you do is shut everyone out when all people try to do is help you." John took a seat opposite. He didn't make eye contact. He couldn't.

"You know me, John. You know the real me. I understand that I'm not the best person to be around right now....But don't think for one second that I don't care about you, because I do. I care about you, John.

I care about us."

John sighed. He wasn't even sure what they were arguing about but he did know that they were going to need each other if they were going to get through this.

A familiar shadow entered the room in a long white coat. Both Sherlock and John's heads turned in synchronisation.

"Ah, you must be the brother in law. Simon, is it?" Doctor Adams continued to speak in a friendly manner. It wasn't easy talking to the relatives of someone in his care, despite working as a doctor for the best part of 16 years.

"It's Sherlock, and I'm John. His partner." John interrupted. He could see the look of disgust and detestation on Sherlock's face in the corner of his eye.

"Lestrade has gained consciousness. I must warn you, he's still in a highly critical state. He's incredibly fragile, but you can see him, if you'd like." He smiled warmly before heading out into the corridor, holding the door open for them both to follow.

All they had done over the last 12 hours was wait to hear some news. However, they were both struggling to find the courage to see him. Sherlock could see the fear reflecting in John's eyes. Finally he reassuringly took ahold of his hand, and the pair followed the doctor down the hallway.

Seeing the room Lestrade was in immediately made John understand why people take flowers to hospital rooms. Despite the technological lives we have, there is something in our nature that requires natural beauty as part of the healing process. The hospital room was a concrete pen with a window that provided a limited amount of light. It had a stagnant smell, like it had been cleaned with plain water instead of disinfectant. The bed sat fairly high above the ground, allowing them to be at eye height with Lestrade. Leaving this room wasn't an option for Lestrade, and staying promised to be a slowly unfolding nightmare.   
Sherlock quietly observed the room, it was easier and much less painful than staring at the lifeless body that lay before them. John began taking off his jacket and pulled up two chairs, one either side of the bed.

Lestrade grabbed the bedrail hard enough to make it rattle in it's brace and yanked himself upright. The pain was more intense than he thought it would be, making him grip the rail tighter and his breath catch in his throat as he fought against crying out. Beads of sweat broke out on his pale face as he pulled himself the rest of the way up and glanced at John as if to ask for some assistance. John immediately stood up and made him as comfortable as possible, leaving Sherlock standing helplessly by the door. Both of his hands had been wrapped in bandages, and his forehead had been covered with a long, thick plaster. The thin, cotton bed sheet covered his stab wound, however, Sherlock couldn't help but focus his attention on the long tubs that appeared from every direction, hooked onto a number of different machines.

Lestrade's lifeless, swollen puffed eyes found Sherlock and John's. Slowly, Sherlock managed to make his way to the chair next to the bed, and sat down without breaking eye contact.

"How are you?" Sherlock's voice trembled.

"Oh, I've been better, and yourself?" Lestrade used sarcasm and his own sense of humour in most situations. It was one of the many things that people admired about him.

"I'm sorry, I truly am." Sherlock's voice shook uncontrollably.

"Sorry? Sherlock, you've got nothing to be sorry for. I saved you, you saved me. I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you. Don't torture yourself over this. I'm okay, really I am. Of course, I'll have to stay away from the gym for a while -"

Both John and Sherlock couldn't fight the urge to laugh. Even Lestrade managed to crack a smile.

They all sat there in silence, taking a moment to adjust to the situation. Despite being in a lot of pain, Lestrade appeared to be his usual self. Apart from John, Lestrade had been the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock had ever had. Of course, they spent most of their time insulting each other and winding each other up, just like children really. But there was something special about their friendship. They seemed to get along like childhood friends, knowing every single secret about the other.

"I'd love a cup of tea, John. Would you mind?" Lestrade broke the familiar silence.

"Bossing everyone around already, there's nothing wrong with you." John replied sarcastically.

"Do you want anything?" He asked Sherlock, placing his hand on his shoulder, almost as if it was routine.   
Sherlock simply shook his head, refusing to break eye contact with Lestrade.

"Mycroft's been here all night too. John made him go home to get some rest. You and I both know what happens when he doesn't get enough sleep."

"How is he Sherlock? No, really, how is he?" Lestrade's concerned expression was enough to show Sherlock just how much he meant to him.

"Honestly, he's a complete mess. I've never seen him like this before." Sherlock could never lie to Lestrade. He had always cherished their friendship.

Lestrade's wide eyes filled with nothing but fear and worry as he searched for a place to hide. It was obvious that he missed him, his warmth and comfort.

"He'll be here before you know it. You know what he's like, he won't be able to stay away for too long."

"And how's everything going with you?" Lestrade's cheeky grin reappeared across his face. He could only find happiness in his heart for Sherlock and John. Lestrade struggled to recall a time he had witnessed Sherlock being so happy and content.

"Everything's....great." Sherlock replied unconvincingly.

"What's going on? Have you two had an argument or something?" Lestrade asked with concern.

"No, not exactly. I feel like I'm just waiting to screw everything up. John's the best thing that's ever happened to me....I don't want to ruin what we've got together. I don't want to mess this up." Sherlock spoke softly, his tone was almost brittle.

"You're the only person standing in the way of your own happiness, Sherlock. You love each other, any fool can see that. But, you've spent so long inside your own head, that you've forgotten the most important thing. You've forgotten that it's important to learn to love yourself too."

Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. He needed to believe that he deserved his own happiness, just like everyone else. He smiled gratefully at Lestrade, hoping that he would understand just how much Sherlock appreciated him being there for him.  
Sherlock and John eventually left Lestrade to rest. He was still in a bad place and everyone knew that he was going to need all the strength he could get if he was ever going to get better.

As predicted, it wasn't long before Mycroft appeared at the hospital, desperate to see Lestrade.

"You've been hovering outside the door for the last 8 minutes, why?" Lestrade tried to sit up properly. His breathing was much heavier than usual.   
Mycroft stood helplessly by the door.

"I knew that seeing you, like this, would make it all real. I was hoping this was just a nightmare inside my head. A misunderstanding, perhaps." Mycroft shut the door and hesitantly walked over to the chair next to the bed.   
He glanced around the room almost like he didn't approve before resting his hand on Lestrade's forehead. He leaned in and eagerly pressed his lips against his, causing the world to slowly disappear from around them along with all of their worries. Carefully, Mycroft's hand drifted down and cupped Lestrade's face, holding his head upright, before resting his forehead against his. He didn't know that a kiss so innocent could be so intimate, so meaningful. It was in that moment that Lestrade found the strength that he needed, the strength he had been longing for. Mycroft kissed him again and again, until they both forgot how terrified they were of all the bad in the world.

"Are you in any pain?" Mycroft questioned. Although, he wasn't sure if he was ready to hear the answer.

"I was....but I'm not anymore." Lestrade released a sincere smile.

"Go on then. Tell me you were right. Tell me that I should never have gone." He continued.

"You're an idiot, do you know that?" Mycroft shook his head in disbelief, trying to break the fearful tension.

Lestrade's soft lips stretched into a smile but didn't quite reach his dark eyes. Mycroft had witnessed his smile on many occasions, but he had never truly appreciated it until this very moment. He only smiled for a split second but somehow time stood still as it pierced through all the bad in his life.

"But you're my idiot.

"I'll go if you want to get some rest? I don't mind waiting outside -"

"Stay. I want you to stay here, with me." Lestrade reached out his hand trying to minimise the shooting pain than ran through his whole body.

Mycroft took ahold of his hand, gently squeezing it for reassurance.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise." He spoke softly.

Mycroft watched admirably as Lestrade's consciousness began ebbing away, and his thoughts, as clear and concise as they were moments ago, were coming to an end. His eyes grew heavy and began flickering into darkness as his exhaustion took over his entire body. The image before his eyes brought back the memories of the morning after their wedding day. The following morning, Mycroft, surprisingly, was the first one to wake. He lay there completely still, trying to remember a time he had ever felt so happy and content. He rolled onto his side to find Lestrade still fast asleep. Usually, he would have gone to make breakfast and get ready for the day ahead. But he couldn't help but lie on his side and watch the love of his life sleep peacefully beside him. Somehow, without any explanation, he found that watching Lestrade fall into the darkness of the world quite beautiful. He missed his warm eyes and comforting smile, of course he did. But Mycroft wasn't just looking at his husband anymore, nor his friend or even his soulmate. He was looking at his future, and that's when he knew. It didn't matter what life decided to throw their way because they would be ready.

As he watched Lestrade sleep, Mycroft began to speak softly, hoping that nobody would hear him.

"I don't deserve your love, I never have done, but you give it to me anyway. It already feels like I've known you my whole life. The day we met, I walked into the station to find my brother, but instead, I found everything that I'm ever going to need. My eyes found you from across the room and my soul just went 'oh there you are, I've been looking for you.' I feel like everything in my life has led me to you. My heartbreaks, my mistakes, my choices. Everything. And when I'm with you, my past seems worth it. Because I know that if I'd have done one thing differently, I might never have met you. And life without you is not only unbearable, it's unimaginable. Your eyes eventually found mine and I remember you looking at me like you could save me, and that's exactly what you did. Being with you makes me happier than I ever thought I could be.

I don't believe in fate, but I believe in us.

Whenever it gets hard all you need to do is look at me, and suddenly, everything is okay. You look at me and everything is exactly how it should be. We'll get through this, just like we get through everything.

Together." 

A single tear slid down from Mycroft's warm, butterscotch eyes, followed by another one, and another one, until soon, a steady stream of salty tears ran down his pale cheek, releasing the sadness and sorrow that had been held inside of him for all this time but still he did not make a sound.

His hand was greeted by Lestrade's warm touch.

"Together." Lestrade mumbled softly, barely making a single sound.

It was about 18.45pm when Lestrade eventually drifted off to sleep. Mycroft had poured himself a glass of water on the tray placed on the cabinet underneath the window sill. As time had gone by, more and more cards and flowers had appeared in the room, brightening the place up. Lestrade wasn't allowed any visitors, except his closest family. And Mycroft was the only family he had.

He was the only family he needed.

Mycroft retuned to his chair and rested his head against the back. Gently, he began to close his eyes, and they were thankful for it. He was completely exhausted.

He didn't know how long he had been asleep for, but he was suddenly awoken by the loud, alarming bleeping noise that sounded from the machines attached to Lestrade's chest. Mycroft's heart began racing as he quickly jumped up from his chair. His eyes were completely fixed on Lestrade's, hoping that they would open, but they didn't. Doctors and nurses raced into the room, all trying to get through the narrow door at the same time. A familiar voice screeched in the background. Everything went quiet, everything stood still with time.

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock ran into the room, wrapped both of his hands around Mycroft's arms, and with force, managed to drag him out of the room in one piece. John was already standing in the corridor. He quickly assisted Sherlock by taking one of Mycroft's arms and placing it around his own shoulder. Together, they managed to take him down the corridor and sit him down.

"You can't be in there, Mycroft. Let them do their job. He'll be fine." Sherlock exclaimed looking at John. However, his eyes told a different story.

"I need to be with him. I promised him that I wouldn't leave, that I'd stay with him and that I'd be there when he wakes up." Mycroft spoke with terror and panic. Apart of his mind wondered if he'd ever wake up.

John still had his hand placed firmly on Mycroft's shoulder, ensuring that he couldn't get past him. Despite John's best attempt at trying to remain hopeful, both Mycroft and Sherlock knew there was a chance there was nothing they could do.

Fifteen minutes passed without a spoken word. Doctor Adams finally made his way into the corridor. He removed the elasticised gloves wrapped around his hands, and took off his glasses, wiping away the sweat from his forehead.

Mycroft grabbed onto John's arm to pull himself up. He wasn't sure how he was standing, his legs had turned to jelly.

"Tell me that my deductions are wrong. Please. Don't - don't say it."

Mycroft murmured with a quiet, frail tone. Quiet enough so that the words he refused to hear wouldn't sound. 

"There was nothing we could do. I'm so, so sorry, Mr Holmes. Your husband has gone." 

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for the words that echoed the hallways. As much as Mycroft tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream. He clasped onto Sherlock for support, piling his whole body weight on him, before falling back and sliding down the wall until he crashed onto the ground in one sudden motion. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. John's whole body froze as he witnessed Mycroft bury his head in his hands and rock back and forth, sobbing as he did so, the tears streaming down his face. The raw pain in the pit of his stomach grew as his muffled sobs wracked against his chest. His bloodshot eyes were burning and his chest grew heavier. He could no longer see clearly. All he knew was that nothing would ever be the same again, and Mycroft was going to have to learn to live with that. The world turned into a blur, and so did all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything was gone. 

Lestrade was gone.


	15. Dancing Away With My Heart

hat's the trouble with happy endings. In reality, they're just unfinished stories.

It had been roughly 3 weeks since anyone had seen Mycroft. Sherlock and John called him at least once a day to ask the inevitable question of whether he was alright, although Mycroft kept the conversation very brief. Nobody could hardly blame him. It was going to take him a while to adjust to a life without the one person who made him want to get up and face each day with a smile on his face.

During that time, Sherlock had barely left his room, never mind the flat. John was struggling to find a solution to put him back together again, but it seemed most impossible now that Lestrade had gone. Sherlock had seen more dead bodies than most, but losing someone that you deeply cared about, losing someone who once knew every single mistake you had ever made but still chose to stand by your side, was too painful to put into words. Sherlock struggled to grieve, not because he didn't know how, but because he was so used to losing people, that it almost came naturally to him. He didn't feel like he needed to grieve because everyone he chooses to care about ends up being taken away from him one way or another. That didn't mean that it hurt any less. In fact, it hurt more and more with every single day that passed, every single tear he shed.

John opened the door to their bedroom and gently closed it behind him, preventing any additional light from getting in. He sat in the old, unused arm chair in the corner of their room, gazing towards the bed. Sherlock lay completely still, wrapped in a blanket that covered him head to toe. His eyes were hardly open, he was barely blinking. John wasn't sure if Sherlock had acknowledged his presence, but he continued as he had intended nevertheless.

"You've got to stop this, Sherlock. You've got to stop blaming yourself for what happened to Lestrade. None of this was your fault, do you hear me?" The raw pain in John's tone wasn't as convincing as he'd hoped. All he wanted was to fix him.

A single tear ran down Sherlock's sharp, rosy cheeks.

"It's okay, it's okay. I've got you." John sounded before walking towards Sherlock. He sat comfortably on the bed, placing Sherlock's head on his knee before wrapping his arm around him. He just held him for a moment, without saying a single word.

"I've got to go to work, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson is just next door, okay?" John added.

Sherlock simply nodded his head. He knew that hiding away wasn't the answer.

John reassuringly placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before grabbing his work bag and heading out of the flat. For the first time in a long time, he was glad to be going to work.

The walk home took much longer than John had originally intended, partly because he knew there was something that he needed to do. Despite trying to talk himself out of it, convincing himself that it wouldn't be appropriate, John found himself knocking on Mycroft's front door. The surroundings brought back unpleasant memories. It almost felt like it was only yesterday since he was there, trying to persuade Mycroft to get to the hospital to see Lestrade. Little did either of them know that it would be the last time he would see him.

After a couple of minutes of waiting impatiently by the door, John decided to let himself in. He walked straight into the living room where he barely recognised the figure who was curled up on the floor. Mycroft appeared to have let his whole appearance suffer, which was a complete contrast to John's previous acquaintances with him. However, It was certainly safe to say that they were more than that now. Mycroft was John's friend. His overgrown facial hair almost dismissed his attractive features, and John didn't even question the festering smell that surrounded the air. Mycroft simply glanced at John with a blank expression.

"I'd offer you a drink but I don't appear to have any left." Mycroft carelessly chuckled to himself, lifting up the empty whisky bottle that lay beside him.

John could sense that Mycroft had already had one too many, but he refused to judge him. He couldn't begin to imagine what had been going through his mind since they heard the news about Lestrade. John made himself as comfortable as possible in the pile of clothes that took over the sofa before noticing the state of the house.

"The reason you're finding it so hard, Mycroft, is because you're trying to do it alone." John mumbled with a brittle tone, yet somehow his voice echoed, bouncing off the four walls that surrounded their silence.

"Or maybe it's because I don't want to try anymore, John.

I've got nothing left." Mycroft's feeble cries of pain echoed as he lifted the photo frame that sat on his knees. He smiled sweetly at the picture before clutching it closely to his chest, and releasing the tears from his red, swollen eyes.

"You've got us, Mycroft. You'll always have us, that's a promise. I'm probably going to regret saying this - but go and collect some of your things together, you're coming home with me."

Mycroft glared at John with the most confused yet gratefully sincere expression on his face before heading up the stairs, gripping the rail tightly to ensure his balance.

John stood up and immediately started to regret his decision. But he knew in his heart that it was the right one. He didn't doubt for one second the possibility of arguments and conflicts between Sherlock and Mycroft, but surely that was better than watching them both torture themselves over something that nobody could change.

John found himself picking up the photo frame that Mycroft had left facing downwards on the floor. The image before his eyes was of Mycroft and Lestrade, taken on what appeared to be their wedding day. Both of them were covered in confetti, but they didn't care. They were so ridiculously happy. The glass had been shattered but the photo untouched. Just like their memories of Lestrade. 

They returned to 221B in no less than 15 minutes to the sound of Sherlock playing his violin. John didn't seem to recognise the tune. Perhaps he had started composing again. It was Sherlock's only escape these days. He found composing was a much easier and less painful way of expressing his words and feelings without having to say them. The music came to a sudden halt as John and Mycroft greeted him with their presence.

"Look who's come to stay with us for a short while." John tried his best to remain positive.

"Mrs Hudson will be thrilled to have another reason to make tea, I'm sure." Sherlock spoke sarcastically, dismissing the sense that he was actually pleased to see his brother.   
John took the bags from Mycroft's hand and placed them in his old room, which was now the spare room.   
Sherlock appeared to be more his usual self. John knew that leaving him with Mrs Hudson would help, she always managed to say exactly the right thing to make the situation better.

"We'll leave you to get some decent rest, Mycroft. I'm taking your brother out" John announced enthusiastically.

"You are?" Sherlock didn't sound convinced.

"Yes, I am. You haven't left the flat for quite some time, Sherlock. Fresh air will do us some good." John said, raising his eye brow and glancing over at Mycroft.

Sherlock eventually took the hint. The last thing Mycroft needed was to be the third wheeler in his brother's relationship.

Sherlock and John grabbed their coats and headed out into the fresh, mild breeze that raced through the city.

"Shall we walk?" Sherlock asked, looking up at the light, faded blue sky.

John zipped his coat up. The air was only going to get colder as the night grew.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock added.

"The city? Most definitely. 8 million people live here, yet each day in London is experienced in 8 million different ways. That's what makes it so unforgettable. From my own experience, a bad day in London is still better than a good day anywhere else."

Sherlock simply responded with a smile before taking ahold of John's hand. The warmth from his hand protected John from the cold. Neither of them knew where they were heading exactly, but they enjoyed the journey without the constant worry and anticipation of where they would eventually end up.

The brightness of the stars lead them to Southbank where they were able to appreciate the electric lights that consumed the vibrant city.

"Are you angry that I asked Mycroft to come and stay with us?" John asked, sitting on a bench that rested in equal distance between the London eye and Westminster Bridge.

Sherlock did the same, leaving very little, if any space between them.

"Quite the opposite, actually. It's one of the many things I admire about you. The way you do everything for everyone else and never expect anything in return." Sherlock explained with an irresistible smile on his face.

"He'll get there." John remained positive. Someone in this family had to be.

"In many ways, grief is just like the ocean. It comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, sometimes it's overwhelming. The only thing he can do is learn how to swim."

"Listen, I need to talk to you." John stood up suddenly, causing Sherlock to jump out of his skin. He walked towards the river before turning back and facing Sherlock. The moon reflected on his pale, soft cheeks, lighting up his eyes. John stood up straight, making himself appear taller and certainly improving his posture. He stood proudly as though he had never feared anything his whole life, and never will.

He was a fighter, a solider.

"Whats going on? You're worrying me." Sherlock expressed.

"When I was with Mycroft this afternoon, I saw a photo of the two of them that was taken on their wedding day. I know I wasn't around when they got married, but you could see it on their faces, just how happy they were. You could feel it, whenever they walked into the room, whenever they said the other ones name. I know a wedding is just one day, and please just tell me to shut up if this sounds completely ridiculous. But, I want to spend however long we've got left with each other. We've already wasted so much time and I don't want to lose another second of our future, wondering what could have been. I want a marriage with you, Sherlock."

John's words raced off his tongue so quickly, he wasn't even sure if anything he had just said had even made any sense. He caught his breath, and tried again.

"I want you to marry me."

Sherlock gracefully stood up and joined John underneath the lamppost. The moons brightness reflected upon the river as the soft ripples of water continued to flow down stream.

"It was stupid of me to ask, I'm sorry. Of course you don't want to marry me. I get it." The doubt in John's tone caused Sherlock's eyes to fill with tears.

"We're so lucky. Some people search their whole lives for everything that I found in you. I fell in love with my best friend and now I get to spend the rest of my life with him.   
Of course I say yes.

I'll marry you, John."

John's mouth hung open in shock and disbelief.

We're really going to do this, aren't we? We're going to get married." John couldn't quite believe the words that left his mouth.

"I know it wasn't romantic, I'm sorry. I just -

"It was perfect. And I thought it was very romantic. I didn't know you had it in you."

A genuine smile escaped Sherlock's lips. There was something about the way he smiled; the way butterflies seemed to escape from the pit of his stomach. His smile shone like the stars in the depth of the nights sky, with no city lights to dim them. Despite everything they had been going through, they continued to smile and be the one thing that brightened up even the saddest of days. He had the kind of smile that made you feel happy to be alive and just that little bit more human.

It was now John's turn to cry, but his mind was immediately distracted by the feel of Sherlock's warm breath on his neck, then the tender brush of lips, burning as they made contact with his neck. John's fingers ran through Sherlock's hair, as the kisses became harder and more urgent. His other hand slid around his waist, and pulled him closer to his pine scented body. John's lips eventually found their way to Sherlock's. The kiss deepened as he took control, savouring Sherlock's lips on his until they were both gasping for air. They were both completely oblivious to their surroundings as their tongues fought for dominance. John managed to close the gap further, well, as humanly possible, wrapping himself in the arms of the detective's coat. Without thought, they released their irresistible lips, and inhaled the mild breeze that almost swept them off their feet.

"I want to show you something." Sherlock whispered in his ear, softly biting his lip to stop himself from smiling with excitement.

"Just remember that we're in a public place, Sherlock." John couldn't fight the temptation to smile flirtatiously towards him.

Sherlock took John's hand in his and lead him along the bank. They had only been walking a few seconds, but they appeared to have found themselves in a bigger, more spacious area. The moonlight lit up the concrete like a dance floor.

"It's amazing what you miss when you're surrounded by crowds of people. I often think the nights are more alive and richly coloured than the day." Sherlock admitted.

He released John's hand and took a further three steps before turning around and facing him.

"I guess people will eventually find out, especially if we're getting married...but I guess that you should see this first. Just promise me you won't laugh?" Sherlock expressed with a serious look on his face.

"I... I - promise? Now you're scaring me. Sherlock, what are you doing?" Though John couldn't help but enjoy the mysterious element to their relationship.

Sherlock left John wondering for a few more seconds while he composed himself. He carefully walked over towards John and looked down at his hands with a nervous smile. He placed John's arm around his waist, and held the other in his own hand before looking up at the stars and then back down into his eyes. Those damn eyes. Sherlock smiled warmly. Their future was now clearer than ever.

Gracefully, they began to take their first step. At first, John didn't know exactly what he was supposed to do. He followed Sherlock's lead and naturally placed more and more of his trust in him. It was obvious that Sherlock was some kind of an expert at this, and John was certainly impressed to say the least. He continued to follow Sherlock's rhythm, quickening the pace as he carefully placed one foot in front of the other. John looked down, concentrating on his own movements, ensuring that he wouldn't trip himself up. Only Sherlock released their hands and gently placed them on John's face. He looked longingly into his eyes and whispered.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. You're safe. I've got you."

Taking one step at a time, they circled each other, ensuring their gaze remained locked on the other. Sherlock returned his hand on John's back, followed by John placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, leaving their free hands to finally meet once again. Together, they danced under the stars, their feet in perfect sync to the distinctive beating of their hearts. As the wind calmed, Sherlock felt John ease into his arms feeling relaxed, causing a small smile to form on his lips. The longer John stared into Sherlock's eyes, the faster his heart raced. The moonlight reflected in his eyes, causing John to catch a glimpse of his favourite shade of spring rain blue. They didn't once take their eyes off each other, yet Sherlock knew exactly where to take him. It felt so natural, like they were floating around the city in each other's arms. And with every turn, every step, Sherlock didn't once let John fall.

It wasn't long before the heavens opened. Little droplets of water drenched their hair, skin and clothes. The water droplets began growing larger and falling frequently. The light 'pitter patter' of rain turned into wet thuds as the water raced to meet the ground. The sprinkling turned into a torrential downpour.   
John let go, taking a step backwards and looking up at the angry cries of thunder in the sky. His eyes found Sherlock's once more before the pair burst out with laughter. It was completely ridiculous. They were both absolutely drenched, yet it was the most perfect night to be out.

"Don't you think we'd better go back?" John questioned, glancing at Sherlock who still had the biggest, yet mischievous smile on his face.

"I don't ever want to go back. I want to stay here forever, with you. I want to spend the rest of my life, with you. But right here, right now, I want to dance with you. I want to hold you in my arms until the moon has decided that enough is enough and the sun rises once again.

So, can I have this dance?"

Sherlock's warm smile beamed at John, as he took him in his arms once more.

And that's when they both realised that maybe it wasn't about the happy ending after all...

Maybe, it's all about the story.


	16. Don't You Forget About Me

After having spent the last couple of nights falling asleep in his chair, John woke up exactly where he belonged - in Sherlock's arm's.  
They eventually got back to the flat during the early hours of the morning, after their spontaneous, yet romantic moment beneath the stars that graced the city's night sky.

Sherlock didn't usually go out dancing, but then he'd never had a partner before.

"Ugh, what time is it?" John squinted due to the overwhelming brightness in the room.

"Good morning to you too, fiancé." Sherlock chuckled, he couldn't help but wind him up. John groaned and twisted on his side, pulling the blanket round him tightly.  
Half asleep John was definitely his favourite.

"I could get used to you calling me that." Sherlock found John sleepy tone quite irresistible.

"Don't get too used to it! It's only until the wedding. Besides, I can think of a few more nicknames, if you'd like to hear them."

Sherlock began to slowly run his tongue down John's neck, before lightly kissing his warm, sleep-sweaty skin. With absolutely nothing but the bed sheet separating them, Sherlock placed his hand on John's waist, before climbing on top of him. He continued satisfyingly pressing his soft touch against his neck, gradually becoming more and more intimate as he did so. Whispering sweet nothings in his ear, he knew exactly how to distract him. He knew exactly what John liked.

"Sherl, maybe later. Wh -what's that?"

"My hand, what did you think it -"

"No! Not that. The smell, coming from the kitchen?"

John managed to slide out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown from behind the door, leaving sherlock feeling slightly frustrated between the bed sheets. He stumbled into the kitchen, only to find Mycroft wearing an apron, covered head to toe in flour. Sherlock followed John out of the bedroom, wrapped in his white sheet. He placed his hands in front of John, covering his eyes before whispering into his ear.

"Happy Birthday!"

"How did you even know today was my birthday? Is that for me?" John squealed, eyeing up the perfectly even, three tier birthday cake on the table.

"You know my methods, John. I got my best man onto it." Sherlock winked at Mycroft who didn't seem best amused.

"Oh, John, I nearly forgot. These came for you this morning." Mycroft announced, handing over a pile of cards that had arrived in the early morning post.

"You've got friends?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"More than you." John chuckled to himself.

"We need to do something." Sherlock added.   
"It's not every day you turn...."

"Don't you dare finish that sentence. No, we don't need to do anything. Besides, I've got everything that I need right here" John sweetly kissed Sherlock's cheek before opening the pile of brightly coloured cards in his hand.

"I'm meeting Molly in about fifteen minutes. I don't want to leave you, I'm sorry." Sherlock sighed.

"It's fine. I doubt Mycroft will be going anywhere." John replied a little too quickly, as he carefully put up his cards around the flat, brightening the place up.

"Excuse me, Dr Watson. I do have a life, you know." He sounded most unimpressed.

"Well, if you believe that then I guess it could be true." John replied. He turned to find Sherlock had already left to go and get dressed in a hurry.

"Actually, Mycroft. I wanted to talk to you about something. My counsellor, Rachel, uh, well.." John spoke hesitantly, scared of his reaction.

"You want me to go and see her, don't you?" Mycroft confirmed.

"I think it would really help you. It's nothing to be scared about. When I first went, after the war, I felt embarrassed, ashamed. But it's comforting and extremely reassuring just knowing that there's always someone you can count on, someone who will listen. It might be worth trying at least." John handed him Rachel's card from his coat pocket.

Mycroft stared at the card before his eyes. He didn't think he would ever see the day where he needed to attend counselling sessions. But then, Mycroft had been blind on several occasions. As similarly, he didn't see the day that he would lose the one he loved.

John had always hated his birthday. He couldn't find the reasoning for wanting to celebrate another year of his life. It seemed feckless, ridiculous even. But this year was different. Not just because they had the wedding to look forward to, but because he now had someone to celebrate with. Someone who made everything worth while.

Naturally, Mycroft arrived early and waited patiently outside Rachel's office wearing his favourite khaki coloured suit and burgundy tie. John had offered to go with him, however Mycroft knew in his heart that he needed to make the first step on his own.   
Even if it was the hardest.

"Mr Holmes? Please, come in and take a seat." Rachel offered him a warm, friendly smile before closing the door behind them.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice." Mycroft tried his best to return the smile.

"Let's start at the beginning. Why did you want to come and see me, Mycroft? Can I call you that?" Rachel raised her eyebrow but continued to smile nevertheless.   
She took out a small, floral patterned notebook from her bag, and placed it on her desk before taking her seat directly opposite Mycroft. She returned her full attention to him, forming another welcoming smile that lit up her elegant features.

"Yes, yes. Of course." He exclaimed, before silencing himself and gazing into Rachel's dark chocolate eyes. They reminded him of Lestrade's. Actually, they were exactly like his. Often, people call brown eyes boring due to how they lack the fun and audacity of colourful eyes. But they couldn't be more wrong. Mycroft couldn't help but surrender as her eyes captivated him. Flecks of gold danced within the deep swirls of cocoa making them appear to have a mystery hidden inside, just waiting to be discovered. He was forever getting lost in Lestrade's eyes. At first he was scared to stare into them for too long, just incase they revealed too much. But when he was brave enough to meet them, a shiver of golden light would race down his spine, every single time. Every damn time. Shadows danced across his face as he closed them one last time. Only then did Mycroft realise that actually his eyes were by far his favourite feature. The essence of an untold story, a mystery that was yet to be solved. He was always being reminded of them. Melting chocolate, winter roasted chestnuts, even his morning coffee, where he'd always regret pouring in too much milk because then it was too creamy to resemblance the warmth and fearlessness that greeted him whenever he got lost in his eyes, and honestly, being lost had never felt so right.

"My husband, uh. I - I lost him, quite recently. He was a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, and, he was attacked." Mycroft mumbled with a fragile tone.

Since it had happened, he'd never said it out loud. Partly, because Mycroft knew that saying it aloud would make it all real, but also because he simply couldn't find the right words to express how he felt.

"I'm so sorry. That must have been, well, it must be awful for you. How are you coping?"

Mycroft couldn't help but glare at her, as though she had just asked the most absurd question.

"Naturally, there are bad days. Some are really bad, others are just, well, days. At night, I lie there with my eyes closed and pretend that everything's alright. And for a split second, as I stare into the darkness, the pain disappears. I feel numb. But ask yourself this - What's worse? Feeling absolutely everything at once, or nothing at all? " He admitted.

The trouble is, you think you have time. You think you have forever, but you don't. You have now, you have this exact moment. Nothing is certain after that. This is your life, and this is all you get. Pain. Heartbreak. Loss. Death. Hiding behind other people's suffering, hiding behind our own mask...We think it can take away our pain. But it can't. It's simply a distraction, not a solution. 

"Growing up, everyone always told me that my feelings didn't matter. Whether it was experiencing the stress from exams at school, or discovering who I really was. I was always 'too young' to understand what it was that I wanted, or 'too innocent' to know what things meant. But life doesn't wait for you to grow up. Bad things happen all the time and there's no way of stopping it. I've always known I was attracted to men. Always. But when I eventually told people, the response I got was simply 'oh, it's just a phase' and 'everyone likes to experiment.' But I knew in my heart that I couldn't just ignore it." Mycroft looked down before continuing with his narrative.

"I may not have known him forever, and he may not have been the one I danced with at prom. But he was the person I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. Because falling in love with him, was never really falling. It was walking into a house and knowing that you're home."

Mycroft looked down at his hand, observing the wedding ring that sat perfectly on his finger. He couldn't help but smile at the lifetime of memories they had shared.   
Every love story is beautiful, but of course, the one he had shared with Lestrade was by far his favourite.

"He was never a 'phase.' He was the love of my life."

Mycroft appeared to be out of the flat for much longer than John and Sherlock had predicted. John strolled into the living room wearing his new thin knit jumper, over a light blue shirt, to find Sherlock mischievously conducting one of his experiments.

"John, could you just help me with something? I promise it won't take long." Sherlock announced, sitting by the kitchen table, looking down into the microscope.   
John couldn't help but pull a confused expression. Since when did Sherlock need any help with his experiments? However, John couldn't refuse. He took Sherlock's chair and focused his concentration down the microscope. After spending a couple of minutes adjusting the lens, John's jaw hung open in shock. Before his eyes, written on one of the microscope slides were the words:

'Marry me?'

He sat back in amazement, only to find Sherlock down on one knee by his side.

"I know you've already asked. But, I've finally decided what to get you for your birthday." Sherlock couldn't help but grin as he pulled out a box from his shirt pocket.  
He opened it and revealed two of the most precious, yet simplistic silver wedding rings.  
John couldn't help but grin with happiness at the gesture.

"Get up! You look ridiculous, and short!" John grabbed his hand and they pulled each other up.

"So?" Sherlock asked, longing the words he desperately wanted to hear.

"You already know my answer." John smiled warmly towards him. He couldn't help but light up with happiness whenever he looked into his beautiful, baby blue eyes.

"Si. Oui. Shi. Jah. Yes. I'll marry you. Now, shut up and kiss me."

John leaned in, only Sherlock pulled away immediately.

"Oh actually, that reminds me. It's time to give you your other birthday present." Sherlock whispered mischievously into John's ear.

"I was just going to jump in the shower, can it wait?" John revealed, causing Sherlock to raise his eyebrow, releasing a cheeky grin on his face.

"Perfect. And I don't think it can wait..." Sherlock inhaled deeply, leaning his forehead against John's and taking ahold of his waist. Gradually, they were getting to know each other's bodies. Every scar, crease and freckle that surfaced their skin.

Sherlock couldn't help but look hungrily at John, craving every inch of his body like a drug. Similarly, John couldn't resist studying Sherlock with a flirtatious look in his eye. He could feel his hot breath against his flesh as he ran his hand down Sherlock's arm, adoring him lovingly. Their bodies were just inches apart before John invitingly ran his tongue over his lips, craving Sherlock's touch. Undoubtedly, they were both playing hard to get, until finally, Sherlock passionately kissed his lips, savouring every moment as he fought for dominance inside his mouth. Still clinging onto John's waist, he began taking a few steps back, almost losing his balance, as they headed down the hallway as one body, one motion. Their tongues chased each other's as John's back crashed against the wall. They were no longer dancing in rhythm to the distinctive beating of their hearts, but rather desperately fighting the irresistible temptation, as they continued to crave the other's taste. Somehow, they made their way into the shower, their hands tangled in each other's ruffled hair, still completely preoccupied by the growing sensation that was vastly taking over their whole beings . Sherlock's back accidentally knocked the tap with force, causing the water to race to the ground at the perfect temperature and pressure. John closed his eyes to the water as the heat soaked into his skin. Sherlock's purple shirt soon became wet through. As if it wasn't already tight enough, it clung to his body, outlining his thin, yet muscular build. John's eyes widened at the sight, distracting him from Sherlock's lips that came crashing back down onto his.

God, he wanted him, so badly.

"Oh, do come here." John teased, short for breath, before playfully biting his lips and returning them to Sherlock's. Giving him his full attention, he managed to unbutton the detective's favourite shirt before continuing his mission to explore his wet, naked body as if for the very first time.

"We're getting soaked." Sherlock's word escaped his mouth, catching John's lip as they did so.

"No shit, Sherlock."

It was soon John's turn to moan in surrender as Sherlock continued to move faster, tightening his grip around John's body and gasping something that sounded just like his name. Sherlock panted harder, his mouth open and his head tilted back, his eyes squeezed shut as he felt John's hand moving rapidly over his body, searching, searching...

John paused, simply feeling it for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing steadily in and out as he focused his attention on Sherlock. His hand glided over his water slick body, appreciating every inch of him. Seeking to arouse, John kissed his neck affectionally, tenderly, devotedly, causing Sherlock's knees to tremble.

"Only a fool argues with his doctor." Sherlock whispered, sighing with pleasure.

Something about what happened next, about how turned on, how real and intimate they were, was enough to show John how so very, very human Sherlock is.

He wasn't some kind of heartless machine. Oh, God, no.

He was a man very much in love.


	17. Bad Habits

Being a light sleeper was better than getting absolutely no sleep at all. Sherlock could never understand where most of his energy came from. He barely slept and despite John's best attempts in the kitchen, eating a full meal was still something he struggled with. Of course, this worried John deeply. But Sherlock didn't need a critic, especially since his mind could be his own worst enemy at times. What Sherlock needed was for someone to be there for him, and that's exactly what John did.

Sherlock's eyes grew wider as he lay in bed attempting to deduce the time by observing the position of the sun that beamed through the curtains. It couldn't be any later than 06.30am surely. He gradually pulled himself upright, only for his head to fall back down onto his pillow. Naturally, Sherlock glanced to his right to find John still fast asleep, trapping his arm that was still reassuringly locked around his waist. With restricted movements and not a single sound breaking their silence, Sherlock managed to free his arm, grab his dressing gown and trace the overwhelming smell of coffee to the kitchen.

"I've just made a fresh pot. There's enough there for you, if you'd like some." The shadow slumped in Sherlock's chair sounded as he looked his brother in the eyes.

"Oh right, uh -"

"Most people would say thank you. But then again, you're not most people, I suppose." Mycroft placed his mug on the arm of the chair before letting out a yawn. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't the only one who didn't get enough rest last night.

"Oh, and you are?" Sherlock shrugged.

"Certainly not." A smile escaped Mycroft's lips and was returned by Sherlock.

"However, I would like to kindly thank you all for your hospitality. I'll be going back home today. I don't want to out stay my welcome, and I certainly don't want 'people' to assume that we actually enjoying each other's company."

"We certainly can't have that." Sherlock confirmed, as he took a seat opposite his brother. He continued to stare into his drink, his gaze completely captured as he followed the pattern being made by the swirling steam before his eyes.

Apart from their overwhelming stubbornness, there was something more complex that delivered the immaturity to their sibling relationship. After all, their relationship with one another was simply an everlasting competition - 'I'm the smart one' or 'mummy loves me the best.' Both are socially detached, calculating individuals, but it was clear that Mycroft was the cleverer between the two, which undoubtedly brought great frustration to Sherlock. However, the problem with their relationship wasn't due to intelligence or any other differences they may have. It was due to the similarities they shared, the control they had over one another. Neither had experienced any kind of relationships growing up. Consequently, they both chose isolation over the company of the other. However, despite the ongoing rivalry between them, Mycroft cared greatly for his brother, although his ways of watching out for Sherlock were unorthodox in the extreme. Mycroft's protection and love for his younger brother was always clear. It was never acknowledged, but it was always there, ready to shield him from the bad and evil in the world. The consequence of their isolation came as a shock when eventually they both came to meet other people. Of course, the thought that something was wrong with them crossed both of their minds. It was obvious that they weren't like other people. However, despite Sherlock's lack of social skills, he had always been the better of the two at making 'friends.' He quickly deduced that he was going to need someone to be there for him if he was going to survive in a city cramped with people. Neither would admit it, but looking at the other was like glancing at their own reflection. Beneath all the arrogance and stubbornness they were just two men, two brothers. Both battling their demons in the world the only way they knew how.

"How did it go? The appointment, I mean?" Sherlock's concern came as a shock to both of them. Although, Mycroft appreciated it all the same.

"I didn't think I'd say this, but I'll admit that it helped. It's not going to bring him back, but - well, it's a start. That reminds me, I believe congratulations is in order."

Sherlock sighed as his eyes followed his brother's gaze. He couldn't begin to imagine how painful it must be for Mycroft - talking about marriage. Especially after losing Lestrade only a few weeks back.

"I won't deduce how you worked that one out. We, uh - I was going to tell you. I just thought perhaps you needed some more time to get your head around everything that's happened." Sherlock admitted, unsure about how Mycroft would respond.

"I lost my happiness, Sherlock. That doesn't mean that you're going to lose yours, and it certainly doesn't mean that you don't deserve a future, with John. Don't ever repeat this, but I'm genuinely happy for you. I know that your past hasn't been easy."

Sherlock glanced down, breaking the eye contact between them.

"But you've got a choice, a chance of having your own happiness. Please, take it. Take it, hold onto it and never let it go, Sherlock."

Sherlock gently nodded his head in agreement. Ever since their first meeting, Sherlock had fought every single day with his own demons to make sure that he was the person that John deserves.

"I suppose you'll need a best man?" Mycroft questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"I suppose I do....I wonder what Mike Stamford is up to these days?" Sherlock spoke sarcastically, awaiting the horrified and rather offended look on his brother's face.

"I guess you could always do it. That's if you're not too busy being the British government." Sherlock attempted his best impression of Mycroft, raising his eyebrow and pulling the most hideous expression.

"This may come as a surprise to you, Sherlock. But you're more important than my reputation. Of course I'll be there. I'd be happy to stand next to you as your best man, but undoubtedly, I'll be prouder to stand next to you as your brother."

The awkwardness they both felt in the sudden silence that followed made them both very uncomfortable.

"Right, I'd better collect my belongings together." Mycroft placed his cup back in his saucer and stood up, fastening the buttons to his new, slightly too small, burgundy waistcoat. If that didn't motivate him to stick to his diet, nothing would.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock lifted himself out of his chair and sincerely looked at his brother.

"Thank you. And just for the record, you'll always be welcome here. Whether we like it or not, we're family."

Mycroft placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and nodded with appreciation before heading quietly back to his room.

The months that passed brought much excitement to Sherlock as he had been given more than the usual number of cases, due to Scotland Yard being one detective down. Sherlock was extremely content with the amount of work he had been given. Of course, this meant that he didn't get to see John as much as he would like, especially since John had offered to cover most of the night shifts at the surgery. After a rocky start, John was beginning to enjoy his work and writing the blog no longer felt forced, but rather like a new hobby.

"Dr Watson, your last patient has arrived. Shall I tell him to wait a moment or are you ready?" The receptionist popped her head around the door and gave John a pitiful look. Long shifts didn't agree with anyone, especially on a Monday night.

John glanced at the clock, rolled his eyes and ran his hands through his natural hair before asking the receptionist to send his last patient through. He couldn't wait to finish work and get home. Although, he wasn't entirely sure if there would be anyone to get home to. He missed Sherlock. Keeping busy with work was the best distraction he could find but that still didn't stop him from missing him. John stood up from his desk, interlocked his fingers and raised his arms in the air to stretch. Being in the army had allowed him to keep fit but since his return to the city, John found himself to be quite inactive. Although, Sherlock might have a word or two to disagree with him on that.

John began scanning through the files in the cabinet behind the door before the receptionist returned with his last patient.

"Please take a seat, I'll be right with you." John's attention was still focused on the overloading documents before his eyes. He had never been particularly organised.

"I don't think I can wait long. It's quite an urgent matter, you see." Familiar as it sounded, the man's French accent took John by surprise.

"What do you think looks better - Black suits or grey suits?" The man impatiently continued.

"Suits? I thought you had a chest infection?" John closed the cabinet and returned to his desk to find Sherlock grinning at him from across the room.

"What the hell are you doing here? If you get caught again Sherl-"

"I won't get caught again. Anyway, it's only around 6 months for harassment in the workplace. Maybe even 2, if some of the officers are feeling generous." Sherlock beamed at John with the cheekiest grin on his face.

John couldn't resist the temptation to laugh at him. This man was completely mad, ridiculous even. But he wouldn't have him any other way that's for sure.

"And to answer your question, I think grey suits sound...perfect."

"Ah, I'm glad you agree. I was afraid you'd request to wear one of your silly jumpers." Sherlock continued to find himself quite hilarious. Winding John up certainly wasn't difficult.

"What's wrong with my jumpers? If I remember correctly, you were the one who got drunk last month and refused to give back my favourite burgundy sweater!" John snapped. He'd never been so offended in his whole life.

Sherlock blushed with embarrassment at the thought. He didn't get drunk very often, but when he did, it made for quite a story.

"Anyway, I'd better get going. I'll see you on the weekend." Sherlock checked his watch before softly placing his lips on John's forehead.

"The weekend? Where are you going?" Curiosity took over John's face as he pulled away, taking a few steps back.

"I'm working, I thought I mentioned it already? Molly and I are heading down to Hayes for a stakeout."

John tried his best not to sound hurt, but it was difficult barely seeing Sherlock, especially with all the wedding arrangements they still had to make. John understood the importance of Sherlock's work better than anyone, and of course he would never make him choose between himself and the work. However, sometimes, John wondered if Sherlock would actually put him first, above the work, above everything else that made his heart race. No matter how many times John convinced himself that he already knew the answer, apart of his mind still doubted the man he loved.

"Fine. I'll see you this weekend." John returned to his chair, noticed the rather small luggage bag awaiting by the door and glanced back at Sherlock who still appeared to be oblivious as to why John seemed a little edgy.

Sherlock picked up his bag and began heading towards the door before coming to a sudden halt, almost as if he had completely forgotten something. He dropped the bag from a height and turned to face John before retracing his steps. He placed both hands on the arms on John's chair and shifted his weight forward, eagerly pressing his lips onto John's. At that moment, John didn't care about the anger he felt towards him, the only thought on his mind was how much he had missed these lips, Sherlock's touch against his, the warmth and reassurance that this was the man he was going to spend his forever with. Eventually, Sherlock took a step back, allowing himself to watch as John's eyes opened and greeted his. With that goodbye, Sherlock returned to his belongings and left John sitting helplessly in his chair.

John returned home just before midnight. He was going to need to sleep well if he was covering night shifts for the rest of the week. Despite the flat being a dumping ground for Sherlock's belonging's - lab equipment, files, maps, tongues in the fridge etc, it felt empty. Almost like nobody had visited in months. It felt abandoned and it certainly didn't look like anyone had taken care of it in quite some time. It had lost it's 'homely' feel. Of course, Sherlock and John's definition of homely was quite different to most people's idea of the word. John stood still for a moment, observing the flat and trying to come up with ideas that could improve it's appearance. It brought back the memory of his very first time in 221B and along with that thought came the memory of meeting Sherlock for the first time.

Nobody prepares you for change. Most of what had happened to John over the last year or so had been completely unexpected. It was difficult to picture what his life had been like before moving back to London. But somehow, lying in an empty bed, in an empty flat brought back the memories and the loneliness he had once felt. John couldn't manage to close his eyes long enough for the nightmares to start. Although, being completely alone surrounded by darkness was close enough.


	18. The Weight Of Us

Naturally, with a cup of coffee in his left hand and his laptop resting in it's usual position on his knee, John spent most of Saturday morning reading through the comments on his latest blog post. He was always genuinely surprised that people continued to enjoyed reading what he posted. Although, even John couldn't resit to glance back at his old posts once in a while, especially on the days he felt like he'd lost his way a little. Despite Sherlock's constant denial, John had a hunch that he did the same.

It was about midday when Sherlock eventually returned home from his short trip with Molly. He struggled up the stairs before collapsing into a heap onto the sofa, allowing his eyes to finally fall shut.

"Someone's exhausted." John shook his head and continued replying to his comments.

"You could say that. It's good to be home." Sherlock's eyes flickered open, followed by a small genuine smile escaping his lips as he sat observing John's reaction to whatever it was that he found amusing on the screen directly front of him.

"How did it go? How's Molly?" John asked out of interest. He'd only met her a few times but she seemed sweet and always appeared to be very friendly towards him.

"It was a success, if that's what you mean. Oh, and she's fine." Sherlock shrugged and closed his eyes once again.

"What's with the change of tone?" John stopped typing and closed the laptop before carelessly placing it in the floor.

"She's seeing someone - Tom, I think she said his name was." Sherlock shook his head.

"Right, okay...I don't follow. Why is that a bad thing?" John continued interrogating.

"It's not a bad thing. But spending 96 hours with her telling me every little detail, or not so little in his case, about their relationship isn't something that I signed up for. I should have taken that bloody famous hat of mine to cover my ears." Sherlock grabbed the nearest cushion, plumped it which entailed punching it with his fist, and placing it under his head.

John couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of Sherlock spending four days straight listening to the most human nonsense he would ever hear in his life.

"I'm glad to see you too." John replied, pulling a face at the empty mug that now rested in his hand.

After Sherlock's exceptionally long and overdue rest, the pair spent the weekend organising what was supposedly going to be the best day of their life. The invitations seemed to take much longer than they had originally predicted due to Sherlock having a bad word to say about everyone on their guest list.

"Why does she have to come to the wedding?" Sherlock questioned, testing John's patience.

"Why? Because she's your mother, Sherlock. That's why. Honestly, you're not very good at this."

"Well, I've never planned a party before. How am I supposed to know what needs doing?" Sherlock stated, gazing at the state of their living room.

"Wedding, Sherlock. It's a wedding, not a party. It's our wedding. Surely it wouldn't hurt to try and show a little interest."

"I am interested, of course I am. It's just - I don't know. I'm not someone who believes in spending so much time and effort into organising all this. It's just one day, after all. The only part I care about is spending the rest of my life with you." His tone softened.

"Isn't that the whole point? A wedding is promising to spend the rest of our lives together, right? That's what makes it the happiness day of our life."

"I can't help but disagree with you." Sherlock stated, blatantly attempting to see John's reaction.

John placed down the invitations and focused his attention on Sherlock. His heart was racing, partly because he didn't know where all of this was going.

"Every day with you is the happiest day of my life." Sherlock finally spoke, releasing a smile that caused John to release a sigh of relief.

John spent the next hour showing Sherlock how to do the invitations properly and not in a careless, childlike manner. They decided to hand write them as that way, it would be more personal. Although, they were slowly starting to regret their decision, especially since neither of them had particularly neat handwriting.

"Harry?" Sherlock pointed to the name on their guest list.

John pretended as though he hadn't heard him and continued addressing the pile of envelopes that sat in front of him.

"Harry, as in your sister, John?" Sherlock continued to question him.

"I've been doing some thinking...and, if it's okay with you, I'd like to invite her." John finally spoke.

"Oh." Was all Sherlock managed to say.

"Oh? What's that supposed to mean? Do you not want her there?"

"Well, it's just, you haven't exactly seen her for a long time, John. She walked out of your life when you needed her and she hasn't even bothered to get in touch after all this time. Are you sure inviting her is for the best?" Sherlock questioned his decision.

"I just don't want her to ruin this day for you." He continued.

"So, you don't want her there? Okay, fine. I get it." John continued to make himself busy, completely avoiding any eye contact with him.

"What do you want me to say, John? I know how hurt you were when she left, you told me that yourself. Your mum had just died and she abandoned you. I don't trust her. I don't trust that she won't hurt you again. I just want you to be happy."

"I appreciate you looking out for me, but she's my sister, Sherlock. And it's my wedding day as much as it is yours. Are you telling me that you've never made a mistake?"

"We all make mistakes, John. But walking out on your family when they need you is a pretty big mistake. I thought you'd understand that."

"I do understand that! But I can't spend the rest of my life hating her for leaving me. And who are you to start questioning me? You and Mycroft aren't exactly worthy of a siblings of the year award."

"What's Mycroft got to do with anything? We might not always see eye to eye, but he's always got my back if I need him. At least I know he'd never walk away when everything gets too much." Sherlock snapped, instantly regretting the cold words that danced off his tongue.

"He might not walk away from you, Sherlock, but I've got no problem doing just that." John grabbed his jacket and headed out of the flat, slamming every door shut on the way out to emphasise the anger he felt rising in his chest.

Sherlock knew that chasing after John straight away wouldn't solve anything, especially since he was probably the last person that John needed to see. Instead, he reached out for his violin and closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath in. It had been a while since he'd last composed something - partly because he only ever composed when he needed to express the way he felt, without having to use words to do so. After taking a moment to compose himself and get into the right frame of mind to perform as if he was playing for a crowd of people, he gradually moved his arm down following a straight line, delicately gliding the bow across the strings, producing a rather heartfelt melody. Despite a violin not sharing the same characteristics as a human, the sound of a violin is often described just as a human would be, or rather like the musician who is playing it. Whether that be describing the emotions they may be feeling as they continue to play. In this case, Sherlock's composition wasn't merry or vibrant as most of his pieces were. It sounded almost bittersweet and with every quivering note, the story it told grew darker as though there would never be light in the world again.

The sun was just beginning to set when it crossed Sherlock's mind️ to go and find John. He needed to find him and bring him home before dark, and he certainly wasn't going to get much sleep if they weren't talking. Sherlock knew exactly what he needed to say, but finding the courage to be the man John deserved could be a little more difficult.

It was damp outside due to the frequent downpours of rain that had attempted to drown the city over the last few days. Despite this, the air was still fairly warm. Naturally, Sherlock wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck and put his coat on in one swift motion, ensuring to turn the collar up against the light breeze. It wasn't long before he was walking along Southbank, admiring the sunset and the shadows that were slowly being formed by the overwhelmingly tall buildings that dominated the city's culture.

"I thought I'd find you here." Sherlock slowed down his natural walking pace as he hesitantly approached the bench where he found John sitting quite restfully.

"Am I that predictable?" John chuckled carelessly to himself.

"Not at all. I just decided to follow my heart as opposed to my head, and well - here I am. I would have chosen to come here too. I often do, actually. If I ever need to get away from work, the people...this is where I'll go. This is my escape. Somewhere only you and I understand the sentimentality behind." Sherlock sat on the opposite end of the bench.

"You think sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, Sherlock."

"I used to think a lot of things before I met you, John. Not all of them were true. I know that now." Sherlock admitted, lowering his tone.

They both took advantage of the shared silence to watch the people pass before their eyes. Some were just out to catch a breath of fresh air, others were in a conspicuous hurry, eager to reach their chosen destination with only a matter of minutes, sometimes seconds to spare. Time often ends up being our only enemy. Most people don't realise it until it's too late, others simply ignore it because they don't believe it. If time is ever on our side, it's only for a short while. Eventually it will get taken away from you in one fast, slick movement. But we're not only moving with time, we're changing with it. We're growing. Every second of every day. We may not see the changes in ourselves, but that doesn't mean they go unnoticed. Time is priceless. You can't change it, you can't stop it. The only thing you can do it learn to move along with it and eventually, it will show us what really matters.

"A lot of things have changed since we were last here. Do you remember what I said to you, the night you proposed?" Sherlock asked.

John continued to avoid eye contact but he gently shook his head, confirming his answer.

"I said that one of the main reasons why I admire you so much is the way you do everything for everyone else and never expect anything in return. You always see the good in people. You believe in giving second chances to those who deserve them. God knows, you've given me more chances than I deserve. You've got a good heart, John. You're kind and warm and gentle.... You should invite your sister to the wedding. Of course you should. It's important that she's there, despite everything that's happened between you in the past. I know it would make you happy and that's all I've ever wanted for you."

Sherlock moved closer to John before allowing him to rest his head on his shoulder.

"What if there's a reason we're not in each other's lives? Maybe you were right. Maybe it's just in everyone's best interest if I just leave things the way they are?"

"I was an idiot. Don't let what I said change your mind, John. She's your sister and she should be there. You don't need to send the invitation straight away, we've still got time. I know you'll make the right decision."

"And how could you possibly know that? No wait, let me guess. Is it because you're the great Sherlock Holmes? The genius detective?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking at John. He'd like to think after all this time that John doesn't just see him as a high functioning sociopath.

"It's because I know you."

John glanced at Sherlock and his eyes finally found their way home.

"I've never given anyone a second chance. I've never even given anyone a first. Nobody ever comes close enough. It's almost like there is something there, something that I can't see, stopping people from getting too close. I'm surrounded by a wall. Originally, I was the one who put it there, but now, whenever I try and take it down, nothing happens. People will always see me as some kind of monster. It takes everything you've got to change someone's opinion of who you are, especially once it's made a home inside their head." Sherlock didn't speak with any emotion. Not because he didn't have any, but because he was used to it.

"You're not a monster, Sherlock. You may be a little broken. But we all are."

The words that followed didn't quite make it into the open. Instead, they spun around in John's mind as he continued to rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder, capturing the warmth of his breath that protected him from the cold breeze.

You may not be able to completely fix someone who's broken. But you can try.

And you can start by loving them.


	19. Let Me Love You

The running water came to a sudden halt which caused John's eyes to flicker open. It took him a moment or two to gather his surroundings but he soon realised that he had fallen asleep in Sherlock's chair for the third time that week. He noticed the reasonable sized book on his lap, instantly remembering that he had decided to start reading quite late last night which looking back, wasn't his wisest decision. He picked it up not being able to identify the page he was currently on and placed it on the coffee table by his side. John pulled himself upright, shrugging at the sound of his neck clicking before letting out a grumpy moan. He understood why Sherlock continued to confront him on not being a typical morning person. However, his gaze was soon captured by the tall, slim figure that entered the kitchen from the bathroom, followed by a huff of steam from the hot shower. Running his hands through his warm, damp curls and a towel wrapped around his waist, Sherlock slumped himself into John's chair and made himself quite comfortable.

"You know, the bed would be a lot warmer if you actually slept in it with me." Sherlock raised his eyebrow, glancing over at John.

"Trust me, my back isn't thanking me this morning either. I need to stop staying up so late." John stretched his arms into the air, before feeling the muscles clench in his back.

"Hmm. And I thought my sleeping habits were bad."

"Sleeping habits? Sherlock, you don't sleep full stop. Well, not for long anyway."

"You're not wrong there. And I suppose you coming back to bed wouldn't change that either." Sherlock added with a cheeky grin on his face.

Mrs Hudson was always cheerful and was one of the very few people who could manage the task of putting a smile on Sherlock and John's face. They awaited the enthusiastic knock on the door as they sat admiring her energy as she walked up the stairs to the flat.

"I only want to drop this off and then I'll leave you both be. Happy Anniversary, boys!" She spoke wholeheartedly as she handed over a cream coloured envelope to Sherlock.

John was the first to place a kiss on her cheek and he thanked her for the card as he did so. He glanced over to Sherlock who sat smiling at the gesture before wrapping his arms around Mrs Hudson.

"You don't have to go. At least let me make some tea first." Sherlock offered.

"You, make me tea? Sherlock Holmes, I never thought I'd see the day! You're a changed man." She giggled to herself before taking a seat.

John looked behind his shoulder to make sure Sherlock was preoccupied before opening his mouth.

"Thank you for giving me a hand with tonight. I don't know what I would do half of the time without you. I just want everything to be extra special." John whispered, leaning his head closer to Mrs Hudson.

"Anything for my boys. It's my pleasure, John." She had the biggest, most sincere smile on her face.

Sherlock soon returned with his best attempt at a cup of tea for Mrs Hudson and placed it on the table beside her.

"Just be careful, it's hot."

"You really are a genius, aren't you?" Mrs Hudson chuckled, causing Sherlock to smile back at her.

"I'll see you later, I'm heading down to the station." Sherlock put his coat on in one swift motion before heading towards the door.

John rapidly rushed to his feet and removed Sherlock's scarf from his hands before wrapping it around his neck.

"Be here for 7pm tonight. It's important, Sherlock, okay?" John raised an eyebrow and with every hesitant second it took for Sherlock to reply, he tightened his pull on his scarf, bringing Sherlock's face closer to his.

"I can't believe that you don't trust me. I'll be here, I promise."

"Glad to hear it. Oh, and one last thing. Happy Anniversary." Teasingly, John gently pulled Sherlock's lips closer to his before allowing them to meet as if for the very first time.

John watched Sherlock leave the flat before returning to his chair and taking a sip of his tea. He caught Mrs Hudson still beaning with happiness towards him before releasing a smile. Although, his eyes told a different story. For the past few weeks, there had been a voice in John's mind, urging him to notice the bad as opposed to the good. He felt doubt, about himself, about Sherlock. Something he continued to ignore but deep down he knew that there was a reason behind it. He just wasn't quite sure what it all meant.

The afternoon seemed to drag, partly because he had spent the last few hours taking orders from Mrs Hudson who was helping him cook the perfect anniversary meal for himself and Sherlock. With most of the dinner on the floor, ceiling and John's face, it was finally ready to be served. John still had a couple of hours until Sherlock was due back from Scotland Yard, so he decided to make the effort and start getting himself all dressed up. He couldn't remember the last time he and Sherlock had gone out for dinner, or made the effort and cooked for themselves. Leading busy lives meant that they barely got to see each other for more than a few hours a day. John began browsing through his favourite suits and paused before taking the pale blue shirt off its hanger. A smile pierced through his lips as he remembered the exact night he had previously worn the shirt. It had been one of his first dates with Sherlock, back when their entire relationship was full of mystery and excitement. John thought that he knew everything that there was to know about Sherlock before they became a couple, only he later realised that he had been completely mistaken. John had discovered so many new sides to him. He even managed to find the romantic in him. Sherlock had always impressed John with his extortionately mind, full of facts and figures. John had always assumed that that's all Sherlock's mind was. A place where he could solve problems, complete calculations and store memories as if they had just taken place. Only Sherlock remembers every single detail about John. The size of his sweater, the name of his favourite teacher at primary school, every reason why he doesn't like the colour orange. Within every story that John had ever told, the stories John assumed that Sherlock hadn't paid any close attention to, he'd never fail to mention his favourite places and what makes him happy. John's favourite moments with him were always the unexpected ones, when absolutely nothing was planned. The dates where Sherlock would spontaneously take John back to one of his favourite places. Sherlock doesn't know a single fact about the solar system because to him it's not important and it has no real relevance. Yet he'd be able to tell you John's shoe size and favourite band in a heartbeat. John would never question how Sherlock knew exactly where to take him, he just continued to fall helplessly in love with him.

John hung up his outfit of choice on the back of the wardrobe before heading into the bathroom where he began to unbutton his shirt and start running warm water into the sink. He took the shaving foam and razor from the bathroom cabinet before closing it, accidentally catching his reflection in the mirror. Naturally, John's eyes focused on the scar that surfaced just below his rib cage. He delicately ran his fingers over it's ridges and around it's jagged edges. It was all he had left of the war along with the memories that caused more pain than the wound ever did. As a teenager, John had extremely low self confidence and self esteem. He had always been passionate about clothes and he never left the flat without feeling confident in his outfit of choice. But John had always felt terrified in his own skin. He didn't feel embarrassed or ashamed of the scars that consumed his body, he felt proud. If anything, his scars were the one aspect that he hadn't grown to despise about his appearance. They were a reminder that he was a solider, a fighter, a surviver. John found art in everything he saw but his own reflection. That was, until his first time with Sherlock. Instead of love and admiration, John's eyes were full of fear and dread. He didn't want anyone to see him, not even Sherlock. Little did John know that Sherlock had secrets of his own, storied he'd never shared with anyone. John delicately traced his hands over the scars on Sherlock's back, tracing his hand over every battle he'd ever fought as he did so. Falling in love with Sherlock had taught John how to fall in love with himself. Something he had struggled with his whole life. Of course, John remained to have his flaws and insecurities. He would carry his wounds with him until old age. But knowing that someone loved him for them certainly helped with the healing process.

"I thought I'd help you out a little more." Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at John as his eyes widened at the sight of the flat before him.

He barely recognised the place, it was spotless. It certainly didn't look like himself and Sherlock lived there. John wrapped his arms around her and truly appreciated having someone like Mrs Hudson being there for him.

"I can't thank you enough." John released his arms and took a step back, admiring the effort she had put into making his night with Sherlock so special.

With minutes to spare before Sherlock was due home, John took one last glance around the place before placing a bottle of wine on the table. Feeling quite proud of himself, he took a seat in his chair and waited for their night to begin. Only John was faced with his reoccurring demons once again.

With every hour that Sherlock failed to show up, John found himself listening to the voice in his head more and more intently. Beginning to question why he ever thought that Sherlock would show up in the first place, John removed the tie from around his neck and placed it on the back of the chair in the kitchen, where he continued to analyse everything that didn't make sense in his life. People are always late. Whether it's a first date or you've been married for 15 years. And Sherlock wasn't just anyone, so expectedly John was always prepared for a late arrival. However, the unwanted voices in John's head had pointed out more than just a couple of let downs over the past few months, only John had refused to pay any attention.

Suddenly, John couldn't bare being in the flat any longer. Not just because it was a reminder that Sherlock had ruined their night together, but because it was a reminder of everything that had gone wrong since they'd first met. John felt a sudden rush of uneasiness. He grabbed his jacket and allowed his legs to wonder around the streets of London he had grown to know so well again. He couldn't walk for long, the tiredness he had felt for a long time coming began ebbing away at his conscious thoughts. Despite living in the beauty of London, John instantly regretted not seeing it properly the moment that he stepped into one of the city's remarkable Square's. And Berkeley Square was a gem. There was nothing hidden about it, it was well aware of it's value and showed it off shamelessly. He continued pushing one foot in front of the other, completing the circle that eventually brought him back home. Only it no longer felt much like home. He stood for a moment, purposely reminding himself of the familiarity he felt after returning home from the war. The nervousness he felt in the pit of his stomach as Mrs Hudson greeted him at 221B for the very first time.

John glanced up at the window that was slightly open, allowing himself to notice the bitter melody that sounded from the flat. He closed his eyes but continued listening in search of a new solution. John refused to interrupt, so he stood waiting patiently. Clinging onto every heartfelt note that sounded in Baker Street. His racing heart beat completely out of time with the composition that soon came to an end. Only it wasn't the end. The music was only just beginning and it was a piece that they were both all too familiar with.

Falling in love sometimes opens your eyes to the point where you're seeing everything but the person you're falling for. John couldn't remember what it was that he'd first fallen for about Sherlock. Maybe it was the mystery in his eyes, or maybe it was his character and the way his mood changed when the clouds parted. Whatever it was, it made him fall pretty damn hard. He fell passed the faults and inhuman flaws that everyone else chose to see. John had been so blind. He used to think that's what made him so special to Sherlock, but maybe he'd just been an idiot. An idiot in love.

The thing about learning to love yourself, is that it encourages you to understand the love that you deserve from other people. Some mistakes are harder to recover from, and now the answers John had been searching for were clearer than he was ready to admit. Perhaps if he spoke enough sense, he'd lose his mind.

But it didn't matter what his current thoughts were, John had been happy here and nobody could convince him otherwise. Because London wasn't really a city, and 221B wasn't really a flat, they were a man.

And John was about to face that man, knowingly. Something he should have done a long time ago. Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one.


	20. All You Never Say

Neither of them knew what to expect when John opened the door to the flat. His gaze immediately focused on Sherlock's features as he watched him rest the violin back in it's case. Feeling like he had all the time in the world, John entered the kitchen before reaching a glass down from the top shelf and pouring himself a drink. Naturally, he reached out for a second glass and presented it to Sherlock out of curiosity as to whether he'd be joining him for a shot of whiskey. After Sherlock's approval, John carefully poured the appropriate amount and handed it to him, ensuring his eyes remained focused on the glass.

"I can't imagine how angry you must be with me, John. I'm sorry, you've got to believe me." Sherlock took a large gulp from his glass before leaning on the window sill. 

"I'm guessing you were given a new case?" John questioned with confidence. He almost knew him too well.

"They needed me." Sherlock confirmed.

"I needed you." John glanced eagerly towards him, finding himself looking desperately into Sherlock's eyes. He needed him to understand, just this once.

John refused to sit down. He was completely exhausted but that didn't matter to him at this very moment in time. Right now, it was just about himself and Sherlock, and both men were very aware that they faced a long night ahead of them.

"Are you happy, Sherlock?" John took a moment to gather his thoughts before asking a question he dreaded to hear the answer to.

"Happiness can be defined in many ways, John. A variety of factors contribute to what makes a person happy." He replied.

"And am I one of those factors? Are you happy?" John repeated himself.

Sherlock rested his glass on the table before sitting down. His entire body felt numb, as though he was floating on the air that surrounded him. 

"You're not a factor of my happiness, John. You're the only factor. You are my happiness. Surely you know that?"

"I used to think I knew the answer - but now? I feel as though I don't know the first thing about you and what we've got together. I refuse to be the person who makes you choose between the work and myself, Sherlock. I'd never ask. But recently, that's only because I feel as though I already know your answer."

Sherlock's eyes remained in focus on the glass held firmly in his hand. He could sense John's movement across the room, heading towards the fire place. Every one of this thoughts had collided with each other in one brisk motion, preventing him from being able to identify his current thoughts. His pulse quickened and his vision blurred slightly, yet his body remained completely still. He knew he had let John down. Not just this once, but he had repeatedly failed to be the person that was going to be there for him. He could feel it. The remorse that swirled in the pit of his stomach. The roads he had walked along had demons beneath, and Sherlock's had been waiting for an awfully long time to catch up with him. Only Sherlock was no longer terrified of the demons in his own mind, but rather the words that echoed in John's as he continued to pace around the living room, his features shielded with an emotionless mask.

"I'm tired, Sherlock. I'm tired of competing for your attention against something I don't stand a chance against. This whole time I've just been an idiot." John's voice ached.

"John, you're not an idiot. You're the bravest and wisest man I've ever known." 

"No, I'm an idiot, Sherlock - because I thought I could change your mind. I always knew what I was up against, what we were both up against. But I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could convince you that I was all you needed. Out hearts might want the same thing, but they're in completely different places."

Sherlock remained silent, confirming the answer that John needed but wasn't ready to know. 

"All I know, is that, I care so deeply for you. I always have done. But you need to learn how to love yourself, Sherlock. The way that you taught me how to love myself, the way I love you. I've only ever wanted to save you. I want to keep your head above the water, but I'm drowning and I'm running out of air to breathe." John murmured, barely being able to recognise his own tone. 

"I'm sorry." Were the only fragile words that were able to escape Sherlock's lips.

"Don't say you're sorry. I'm not sorry, Sherlock. Whatever we've been through, it wasn't a mistake. It was real. We were real." John reassured him, only Sherlock wasn't convinced.

"If that was true, then why are you talking about it in the past tense?" Sherlock questioned, not expecting to be greeted with an answer.

John continued staring at the broken man that stood directly in front of him. He found it remarkably easy to slip back into his old habits of hating himself. After so many mistakes and bad decisions, John couldn't understand why he was yet to learn a single thing. Perhaps he had. Perhaps Sherlock had just been an exception. Either way, John  struggled to understand the man he had chosen to love. Was he just uncertain or was he scared to drop his guard? If only John could look into his mind long enough to find a sign, to find the words he had longed to hear for so long. The problem that John found was that words with no meaning don't tell you anything. Maybe Sherlock wasn't broken after all. Maybe he was just afraid to show his heart. 

John placed his glass to one side and took a step closer to Sherlock than he needed to be.

"I'm not angry with you, Sherlock. I could never ask you to change because I'd be asking you to be someone you're not. This is just who you are...."

The tears had now blurred his vision, but what John could see was crystal clear. He took his hand and placed it on Sherlock's left cheek, using his thumb to wipe away the tear that had longed to fall. 

"....and I love you for it." John choked on his tears and forced himself to look at the ground. He couldn't bare the ache he felt from the shattering of his own heart as he continued to break Sherlock's.

"But I'm not what you need, Sherlock. And sometimes, if you love someone, the best thing you can do is let them go." 

Sherlock grabbed both of John's hands and wrapped his hands around them before leaning forward and resting his head against his touch. 

"We're doing an awful lot of guessing, Sherlock. I don't have time for guessing anymore." 

John could barely hear Sherlock's echoed sobs above his own. Sherlock's grip continued to tighten as he held John's hands in his. Finally, his sore, bloodshot eyes found John's and he released a fragile, wounded smile.

"I've never loved myself, John. But, oh god, I love you so much, I forget what hating myself feels like. But tell me, was I just a mistake?" Sherlock asked, before mentally creating his own version of John's answer in his head.

"Sherlock, look at me. I'm me because of what has happened, what I've done and because of who I've loved. I'm not sorry about us. I'm just sorry that I couldn't be the person who saved you." 

"You did save me but more importantly, you loved me. You caught me when I didn't understand that I was falling. I'm sorry that I am the way I am. You deserved so much better." The words rolled off Sherlock's tongue without a second thought.

"If you wish you could have been someone else, someone different, I can promise you that I do not. You're Sherlock Holmes. This world is an infinitely better place because of who you are and what you do." John's tears continued to fall one by one, despite his best attempt at a smile, hoping it would pierce through the pain rising in his chest.

"Maybe we were made to be broken. I know I was...

Fearing pain is substantially easier than feeling it." Sherlock continued before taking a sharp, deep breath in. His lips quivering as he did so.

"Maybe." 

Sherlock lightly nodded his head and looked up at the ceiling, preventing anymore tears from rolling down his cheeks. He took another deep breath and gently released John's hands, still finding it too painful to make any further eye contact. However, he figured that it couldn't possibly hurt anymore than not ever being able to get lost in his eyes again. And with that, their eyes met one last meaningful time. Pupils dilating. Pulse quickening. Heart aching. Only Sherlock's eyes continued to follow John as he watched him trace his steps into their bedroom. Sherlock stood still, trying to identify a single thought in his head that might actually make sense in his current situation. It wasn't long before John returned, moving closer and closer towards Sherlock with every step as he silently struggled to carry a large, overpacked travel bag down the hall and back into the living room. John let the bag fall carelessly onto the floor before lifting the strap off his shoulder. They stood finding comfort in their own silence for a moment or two, appreciating this moment before it had to go. Mrs Hudson unexpectedly made an appearance, eagerly opening the door to the flat, interrupting the unspoken words that swirled in the shadows. She stopped suddenly, reading the expressions on John and Sherlock's faces before closing the door behind her.

"What's this?" She questioned before her attention was caught by the bags that surrounded John's feet. 

Nobody spoke. The silence was now growing to be more uncomfortable as opposed to what they were used to, which is where John found his cue to leave. His eyes finally struggled to leave Sherlock's soft features before he briefly glanced at Mrs Hudson and struggled out of the flat, dragging his belongings with him. The emptiness that gradually took over the flat brought more and more pain to Sherlock. His chest continued to grow heavier as he dismissed the thought that he may never seen John again after this moment. Immediately, without the context of what had happened, Mrs Hudson rushed over to Sherlock and steadily wrapped her hands around his. She looked up at him, only to find his eyes still focused on John as he made his way down the first few steps. John turned his back, catching a glimpse of the most heartbreaking image that he had ever faced.

And that's the exact moment that John knew. The problem wasn't that Sherlock Holmes didn't have a heart. 

The problem was that he couldn't find it.


	21. Can't Remember To Forget You

John's eyes flickered open, greeting the most stupendous sunlight that shone wildly through the narrow gap created by the curtains that almost touched. It didn't matter how many hours he spent tossing and turning, attempting to capture a decent nights sleep, John always awoke the following morning with his eyelids heavier than they were the previous night. Despite the exhaustion already beginning to gain control of his body, even John had to admit that Mycroft's sofa was comfier than any bed that he had ever slept in. John struggled to sit up right before clicking the joints in his back. His attention was soon captured by Mycroft sitting across the room from him in a grand old armchair which was clearly the most loved item of furniture he owned. Both men exchanged a few glances, but neither were prepared to open their mouths. John didn't know what to expect, but then again, that had always been the case with Mycroft. He was to expect the unexpected. Luckily, It was fairly late when John landed on his doorstep last night which allowed him to avoid questioning until sunrise. He continued to try and deduce Mycroft's thoughts, attempting to get a head start at the conversation he was unwillingly about to have.

"Go on, say it. I've only got myself to blame, right? This was never going to end well." John snapped.

"You need to put more work into your deductions, John. I was thinking nothing of the sort. I was actually going to ask if you slept well, but I can probably figure that out myself." Mycroft responded with a much gentler tone.

Given the current situation, most would find it rather peculiar that John should end up staying with Mycroft. However, despite John's importance to his brother, Mycroft had grown rather fond of him. Not just because he was another pair of eyes to mind the person who mattered most to Mycroft, but because John was a good man. A kind soul. Someone who guided him through the difficult times that naturally brought them closer together.

"Not that I like making conversation, but how are you, John?"

John searched his mind for the most simplistic answer to explain the complexity of thoughts that swirled through his mind, yet he found nothing. Nothing could possibly scratch the surface long enough to deliver an answer that could sum up the way he felt. And Mycroft could see that, so he postponed asking any further questions until he knew John was ready. John lowed his head and rested it comfortably on the arm of the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling before releasing a rather negligent yawn.

"I'm surprised that you're choosing to sit here, with me. Haven't you got a country to run or a goldfish to drown or a brother to save?" John finally questioned.

"Do you want my advice, John?" Mycroft responded, mirroring John's emotionless expression.

"Not really but I gather that I'm to expect it all the same?"

"Leave it all behind. Everything. Find some place else to get lost in and embrace change just like you've always done."

"Leave London?" John's eyes widened at the thought.

"You'll never leave London. It's engraved in your heart and soul. You'll carry pieces of it with you, wherever you decide to go. But I think that it's important that you do go. Just because you didn't find your happiness here, it doesn't mean to say that you can't look elsewhere for it."

"But, what about -"

"Leave him to me. I'll take care of him, just as I've always done. I promise."

Mycroft stood up, removed the old ragged dressing, revealing his brand new navy three piece suit and fastened the buttons to his waistcoat without glancing down. Naturally, he corrected his posture before slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and handed over a rectangular shaped envelope to John.

"Your flight leaves tonight. Whether you get on it or not - that's your choice."

Mycroft turned his back and began putting on his coat. He was most certainly going to need it if he was brave enough to face the bitter cold wind outside.

"Trying to get rid of me already." John chuckled, trying to diffuse the unwanted tension.

"You helped me, John. Through what I can only describe as being the most unbearable time I have ever encountered. I'm not saying that it's going to be painless. But if I can get through my difficulties, then you can get through yours."

John peeked down at the envelope that rested in his hand.

"Italy?"

"Hmm. I presume your sister will be waiting for you at the airport." Mycroft released a smile that was gratefully returned by John.

John needn't ask how Mycroft knew where to find his sister. He felt uneasy about leaving his life behind in London, leaving Sherlock. Everything was blurry, unclear. But that was temporary and John knew deep down that starting afresh, somewhere new, would do him the world of good.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft's legs froze in place. He turned back to find John making the effort to stand up, tucking the shirt he had worn the previous day back into his trousers.

"Why - I mean, why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?" John questioned, taking a step closer to Mycroft in the process.

"My brother means a great deal to me, John. I'm sure that you're very aware of that. Growing up was difficult to say the least. I had my problems, Sherlock had his. Despite our parents making life as uncomplicated as possible for us, our childhood wasn't exactly normal. We weren't exactly normal. I refuse to go into such detail, but as you can imagine, Sherlock's way of dealing with certain situations, certain feelings, could be extreme to say the least. I've always tried to do right by him, be there for him, shield him from the world. But, there are times when me being there just wasn't enough. I'm afraid of losing him, John. You walking into his life not only saved him, but you saved me too. You managed to accomplish the task I have been trying to do for what feels like a very long time. For that alone, I am eternally grateful. You're a good man, John. That I do believe."

John nodded his head as a sign of appreciation for all that Mycroft had done for him. Despite not having the ending he'd hoped for with Sherlock, he'd still made a friend during his time back at London. A good friend.

John entered the kitchen and scanned through nearly every cupboard before he found what he was looking for. He ran the tap for a few seconds before pouring himself a glass of ice cold water and taking a tablet for his ongoing headache.

Only the pain he felt wasn't in his head at all. 

"You haven't touched your tea, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson tried to keep busy in the flat, organising the mess before reorganising it, just so that she had an excuse to stay close to Sherlock if he needed her.

Sherlock sat curled up in John's chair, his arms wrapped around his knees forming the smallest shape humanly possible. Despite Mrs Hudson's presence, he couldn't help but feel the loneliness smothering his every breath. He hadn't changed, he'd barely moved. Something that concerned Mrs Hudson but was yet to surprise her.

"Sherlock, please talk to me." She voiced, crouching down so that she was at perfect eye height with Sherlock.

Reassuringly, she placed her hand on top of his, comfortingly rubbing her thumb back and forth as she offered him a warm smile. Sherlock remained silent but carefully placed his hand over Mrs Hudson's as a small sign of appreciation. Mrs Hudson knew better than anyone the torture of watching and waiting for Sherlock to leave his thoughts alone. Waiting for him to stop torturing himself. As painful as it was, the only thing she could do was be there for him.

"Brother mine." Mycroft's voice echoed throughout the flat, startling both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson raced to her feet before greeting Mycroft at the door. She offered him a nervous smile and mirrored his distressed features, trying to allow him to understand the state of his little brother. Mycroft accepted her concern before holding the door open for her to make her way downstairs.

"Don't tell me that I need to talk some sense into you too."

"What? You mean, you've spoken to him?" Sherlock's narrow, drained eyes shot open like a bullet to a wound.

"Of course. I found him, well, I found pieces of him on my doorstep late last night would you believe."

"And...and how -"

"How is he? Don't try to fool yourself. You already know the answer. But I should tell you that he's moving on, Sherlock. It would be wise of you to consider doing the same."

"Moving on?"

"He's leaving, Sherlock. And if you care for him, if you love him, you'll let him go."

Mycroft's words spun around in Sherlock's mind at what felt like 100mph. It is a cruelty of life that the heart can keep on beating after it has broken in more ways than one.

"I'd like to get some rest, if you wouldn't mind." Sherlock added, glancing at his brother and then over towards the door.

Mycroft didn't want to argue or cause a scene so he granted Sherlock's request and began heading out of the flat, but not before turing back one last time to witness his brother return to the position that released the child within him. Not the typical sulky kid or stroppy teenager. But rather the boy who cried himself to sleep, screamed until he no longer created a sound. And that's the picture that broke Mycroft's heart.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. For all the hurt that you're going through. I want you to know that."

Mycroft returned back home within no time at all due to having his own personal chauffeur. He stepped out of his car only to notice his front door wide open and an unexpected vehicle which awaited on the road. He was soon greeted by John who came scurrying out of the door, dragging every one of his belongings with him, packed in suitcases upon suitcases which were clearly too small.

"I was hoping to have left by the time you got back. I've never been any good at goodbyes." John came into full blown slow motion as he spotted Mycroft looking rather bewildered on the road.

"That surprises me a little, considering you've been on the move most of your life." Mycroft questioned.

"Maybe that's just it. Maybe I'm tired of saying goodbye. Of course, that doesn't make it any easier. Especially when I feel like I'm missing something."

"You're not going to say goodbye to him are you?" Mycroft's concerned expression soon reappeared.

"I can't. If I say goodbye then I'm admitting that it's really over. I'm not ready to do that, not just yet." John's eyes wondered around his surroundings, being unable to make contact with Mycroft. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid.

"Of course, understandably. You don't owe anybody any sort of explanation, John, least of all me" Mycroft looked vacantly at the driver who stood next to the car awaiting John's return. He opened his mouth but didn't speak a word, seeking the privacy himself and John deserved before he continued with his narrative. Mycroft refused to look away until the driver had fully closed the car door behind him before reopening his mouth.

"When I lost Lestrade, you were there for me. You've aways been there for me and I've never really had that before. I'm starting to see that I know how to love, to lose, to start again. You'll always be welcome here, John. Never forget that."

"I appreciate it. Everything you've done. Thank you." John refused to let his guard down and show an ounce of emotion.

"Alone doesn't protect you. Friends protect you. You taught me that. Thank you for being my temporary shield, John." Mycroft offered his hand with a bittersweet smile on his face before raising his arm and saluting his friend.

Naturally, John returned the gesture and ensured his belongings were all in the car before he too got in and closed the door behind him. He rested his head in the palm of his hand as the car began to drive off, increasing the distance between himself and what could have been in the remarkable city he was proud to call home.

Sherlock may have been his bridge but it hadn't been enough to protect him from the hurricane that he was named after. Perhaps we create our own heartbreak through expectations. And as John continued to leave the storm behind, little did he know that the wind had changed direction and would be sure to catch up with him.

(TW // Suicide)

Mrs Hudson awoke suddenly, catching the time on her watch before putting the kettle on. She didn't usually nap during the evenings, but today hadn't typically been a normal day. Naturally, she popped the tea on a tray and began heading upstairs to the flat. Mothering Sherlock came most naturally to her and despite his best arguments, Sherlock needed to keep his strength up. Usually she'd knock on the door but Sherlock had barely spoken a world all day and with that thought, Mrs Hudson rested the tray on the kitchen table before noticing Sherlock's absence in John's chair.

"You've finally decided to take a shower and get changed I see." She chuckled to herself. Although, she had to admit that she was surprised that Sherlock was back to his more usual self so soon.

With no reply from Sherlock, curiosity took Mrs Hudson down the hall that led to the bathroom. She knocked three times and only after another failed reply did her elegant features begin to drop out of concern.

"Sherlock, dear? It's only me. Are you in there?" She remained calm. After all, this was Sherlock she was dealing with.

Her patience had expired and she opened the bathroom door, overestimating the strength it would take to do so. It was unlocked and there was absolutely no sign of Sherlock. Slowly, her head tilted to the right, her sight now focusing on his bedroom door that has been closed shut.

Her pulse quickened and her heart was now in her throat. Mrs Hudson was completely oblivious to what she was about to witness. Talking baby steps towards the bedroom, like a toddler learning to walk, trying to find balance seemed most impossible due to the numb feeling that took over her whole being. Gripping onto the door knob and ensuring to take a deep breath, she opened the door, allowing her eyes to adjust and comprehend to the horrifying sight before her eyes.

She hurried over to the bed, still not being able to feel anything. With her heart now pounding in her chest, she grabbed Sherlock's arm, shaking him as much as she possibly could. Mrs Hudson placed her hands firmly on his shoulders before applying more pressure as she continued to shake Sherlock who was lying out cold.

"Sherlock, my boy, what have you done?" Mrs Hudson screeched, trying to catch a breath from her aching sobs.

The empty bottle of pills in Sherlock's hand between his grip caught her attention. Without a second of hesitation, she rushed to the other side of the bed and opened his hand, removing the bottle. She scanned for any indication of what he'd taken, still refusing to let go of his touch.

"What have you done?" She repeated as the tears continued to stream down her rosy cheeks.

Mrs Hudson forced herself to return to the living room where she found Sherlock's phone. She dialled for the ambulance before bringing herself to contact Mycroft, making her way back to Sherlock as she did so. Keeping the conversation as brief as possible, she instructed Mycroft to get to the hospital.

"I'm right here. Sherlock, listen to me. I'm not going anywhere. You stupid boy, why would you do this to yourself. Wake up, Sherlock. Please, for me. Wake up."

It wasn't long before the paramedics arrived and Sherlock was taken to the hospital in the ambulance, with a devastated Mrs Hudson by his side. With progress yet to be made, nobody gave up hope that he'd eventually pull through. That was, apart form the only person who'd ever made Sherlock question why he'd be better off alone, the only person who didn't know.

And just like everything he'd ever known, Sherlock was slowly disappearing too.


	22. Into Battle

Falling in love. It's a long way down. That's what makes it almost impossible to return.

The trip to Heathrow airport took a little longer than expected due to the never ending traffic jams that attempted to delay the city's movements. Every hour in London was rush hour, although John didn't mind. In fact, he was grateful for the extra time he had to admire the overwhelming city that had brought him so much joy over the years. And the man behind it. He arrived at his destination with plenty of time to spare before he was due to board the flight that would take him beyond the clouds and away from everything that had caused him both love and heartache over the last few years. Despite doubt gaining control over John's recent thoughts and allowing him to see that he deserved better, he still loved Sherlock dearly. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready to leave but he certainly couldn't think with a clear mind while they were both in the same place. That much he did know. John hadn't been prepared for anything that had happened to him during his return to London. He had achieved things that he didn't believe were possible but more than that, John had experienced happiness he wasn't aware that existed.

Without any assistance from his driver, John struggled to gather the rest of his belongings from the car before walking through the doors to the airport, turning back one last time to admire the allurement before his eyes. The sky never failed to amaze John. It was an endless canvas that colours are tossed upon. Some days it was a pure, uninterrupted blue that stretched seamlessly across the page. When the sun rose, it was a child's painting, bright pinks and oranges piled on top of each other, reflecting off low hanging clouds that filled the world with a haze of wonder. When the fierceness of a bad tempered storm arose, the harsh glow of lightning would illuminate the gathering piles of dull grey clouds that are angrily pushing against each other. At night, the moon glowed, giving the speckle of stars a guide light. The sky was always alive, growing at each passing moment, a constant changing canvas that protected London's endless beauty and everything it had to offer to the rest of the world that would be sure to envy it. It didn't matter where John decided to go, he would always be able to see the stars and sleep easy knowing that somewhere, Sherlock could too.

"Excuse me, sir. Thank you." A petite woman with a sweet, singsong like voice spoke, catching John completely off guard as she hurried passed him wheeling a heavy trolley full of abandoned suitcases.

John glanced down at his own luggage before feeling the pit of sadness swirl in the gut of his stomach. He took a long deep breath, trying to discourage the uneasy feeling that he didn't care for and began making his way towards check in and then security. John knew how airport procedures worked by now. He had traveled around most of his life so it was no secret that nothing exciting would be happening in the next couple of hours. He began taking off his watch followed by his much loved jacket, the only one that he currently owned, ensuring to place his belongings neatly in the tray provided by the airport staff. John didn't hesitate to ask for help lifting his suitcase up before he successfully made it to the other side, without the added embarrassment of setting off the alarms. John soon redressed himself but discovered something he had missed in his jacket pocket. He slipped his hand inside before retrieving a rather small envelope. Remembering that he'd placed his ticket safely in his wallet, John reinspected the envelope, finding the handwriting on the front incredibly familiar.

Sherlock's.

"Sir, you can't stop here. You're holding up the rest of the passengers." The man holding John's suitcase spoke with an understandably strict tone.

"Right, of course. I'm sorry." John slipped the envelope back into his pocket, took back his suitcase and continued his unenthusiastic walk towards the gates.

It wasn't long before John found somewhere to sit. The temptation to buy a newspaper to keep his mind occupied on the flight crossed his mind but with hand luggage as heavy as his, walking around the airport for a news agents didn't seem most appealing and John certainly wasn't going to argue with his common sense. The available seats on either side were soon overtaken by a couple and a mother with a young daughter who sat facing towards John, screaming in her chair for what felt like hours. John could sense the frustration in her mother's tone as she continued to try and distract her. Her best efforts continued to fail, causing her more and more distress as she could feel everyone's unwanted attention gazing at her.

John noticed the soft toy by his feet that the little girl had thrown out of her chair during one of her tantrums. Without hesitation, John picked up the rabbit and leaned forward slightly. He didn't know the first thing that there was to know about children but he continued to move the teddy around with his hand nevertheless, making the funniest noises whilst smiling and pulling strange faces which seemed to catch her attention. John caught a glimpse of the mother sitting next to him, her eyes were closed shut. He could only imagine that she hadn't slept properly for weeks. However, it wasn't long before the screams had turned to shy giggles, and with the thought that she had lost her mind and hearing all together, her eyes shot open in disbelief to see John making a fool of himself.

"You're a life saver. You must have magical powers or something. Thank you -"

"John. And don't mention it, please." He returned her grateful smile and gently placed the toy in the child's pram in the hope that she would remain silent long enough for him to hear himself think.

For the rest of the long wait that seemed to drag, the child couldn't take her big, beautiful olive eyes off John who occasionally pulled a funny face to keep her entertained. John checked his watch every fifteen minutes or so, not that it made much difference. He certainly wasn't going to leave London a second before he had to. John's eyes grew heavier and heavier and before he knew it, he was awoken by the announcement through the speakers, informing him which gate to go to. He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been asleep for, but he wasn't surprised to find that he was waiting alone once again. Not that he minded a little extra peace and quiet. And of course, the trouble isn't really being alone, it's being lonely.

Taking his time meant that John was one of the last people to join the queue at his allocated gate. John would say that he was certainly a man with a lot of patience, but even he was starting to get fed up. Gradually making his way nearer to the front of the line, he decided now would be the time to get out his ticket and passport. Anything to make this process a little faster. A familiar noise sounded from his pocket, reminding him to ensure that his phone was on flight mode before take off. However, the name on the screen changed John's mind about rejecting the call.

Mycroft.

'What could he possibly want?' John thought to himself, allowing a confused expression to appear on his face before answering his phone.

"John?"

"Mycroft? I know that you're going to miss me, but this has got to be a world record, even for you. I've only been gone for a couple of hours. England hasn't fallen already has it?" John chuckled to himself before continuing, ensuring to move along with the queue as he did so.

"Anyway, thank you for calling but I'm about to board the plane. You know, the one that you booked for me before you sent me packing." John couldn't hear a single word being spoken on the other end. Perhaps he had a bad signal.

"Mycroft? Am I talking to myself? Hello?"

"John. Listen to me. You need to turn around and go back."

"Go back? I'm nearly at the front of the queue now. Or at least I would be if certain people would move a little faster." John raised his voice slightly and received the odd judgmental glare from the remaining passengers in front of him.

"No, John. Listen. You need to get into a car and come back. Right now. Do you hear me?"

John was beginning to detect the heartbroken melody in Mycroft's tone. He sounded like he'd been crying but that couldn't be right.

"I can hear you but can't you tell me what this is all -"

"It's Sherlock.

He chose cocaine, John. Lots of it. You need to get to the hospital. Now. Meet me there."

John hung up. He was now the first one in the queue but he hadn't been able to move any closer. His heart began pounding out of his chest and his vision began to blur. Everything was a blur. None of it made any sense. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not to him. Maybe Mycroft had made a mistake? But it was Mycroft, surely not? And that's when everything fell into place. The envelope. The note. His note.

"Sir, can I see your ticket and passport please?"

Nothing.

"Sir, are you okay?" The man asked out of concern, taking John's pale features and look of horrified distress into consideration.

"I shouldn't be here." John's mouth remained open but nothing else comes, his face working to understand something that he dare not comprehend.

His eyes finally came into focus and he gasped as though he'd held his breath for a moment too long before sprinting back through the airport as fast as his legs could carry him and the weighty bag that he had thrown over his back. John couldn't breathe, it felt as if someone was trying to strangle the life out of his lungs. His heart continued racing faster with every second that passed. All he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and wait for someone to save him. Only he wasn't the one who needed to be saved. Despite the growing weakness of his vision, battling his way through the remaining people at security was much easier than he had predicted due to most people now doing what he had come here to do, leave the life he knew too well. John soon made it outside and immediately shouted for a taxi to get him out of there. He waited until after he'd given the name of the hospital to the driver before he lets his tears come. Every other emotion was pushed aside by the overwhelming familiarity of sadness. The most painful thing about the sadness that John felt was that it wouldn't allow him to travel to the past or future. He had to feel every second it like death by a thousand paper cuts. For every second that Sherlock was on his mind, it was another cut to his already damaged mind.

He reached into his pocket to find his wallet and prepare the exact change for his journey before once again remembering the note that rested in his possession. Steadily, with the hope that this was still a mistake, John pulled out the envelope and stared at the handwriting on the front. Being unable to take his eyes off his beautifully written name, his mind cruelly focused on the agonizing memory of the afternoon they had spent writing the invitations. John had continued to stress the importance of ensuring that Sherlock's handwriting was neat and readable. Only John now knew that he didn't need to read what was inside to understand that Sherlock's message was crystal clear.

John struggled to bring himself to open the envelope. He couldn't do it. Sherlock could have put it in his pocket only that morning. Unless, had he already deduced John's heart? John tore open the envelope and opened the folded piece of paper inside. He needed something, anything, to hold onto. John needed an answer, only the two words that greeted him only caused more confusion and upset.

'Goodbye, John.'

John reread the words again and then again, somehow expecting something else, something more. That's all he had left him with. Two words. Two meaningless words that overtime would plead for forgiveness and justify Sherlock's actions. John understood how selfish his thoughts were, he was angry. Perhaps that's why Sherlock did it. So that John would remember his arrogance, his inconsideration, his bad temper and stubbornness. John ran his touch over his handwriting, reading each word like a stab in the chest. In that moment, taking a knife would have been significantly less painful. He continued to torture himself for the remaining duration of his journey. John needed to see him, now more so than ever. He longed for the answers he was owed by the man who supposedly loved him. Often our human hearts forget how strong they are. After all, what is a heart, but to pump blood through our veins? And even that can be pointless at times.

Immediately after stepping out of the car, John recognised one of Mycroft's drivers who informed him that he'd been ordered to take care of his luggage. John struggled to care less, he just continued moving as quickly as possible. It was almost routine by now that he was greeted by a cold, antiseptic odor that lingered in the air and scratched the inside of his nostrils as if it were alive. John hated the smell. No matter how many times he'd been through these corridors, he just couldn't get used to it. He subtly scratched his nose and did his best to breathe only through his mouth. He made it to reception and instantly sighed, recalling just how hectic this place was. John focused on slowing down his breathing pattern, only slightly, starting by catching a breath. The crowd he had found himself in had a life of it's own. John felt as though he could be anyone, or perhaps no-one at all which suited him more conveniently. The people flowed like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but swirling around them. Until the crowd parted enough for John to recognise the familiar figure standing before his bloodshot eyes. It only took a second or two, but John was soon able to deduce the look on his face. And with that, John found himself in his darkest nightmare yet.

And there was absolutely no way of waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have still got a couple of chapters left to publish. I should be updating within the next few days. I hope you have enjoyed it so far:-)


	23. Almost Is Never Enough

Mycroft held the door open, allowing John to walk ahead of him and catch a glimpse of the hallway that stretched beyond. On the private ward, the atmosphere was completely different. The air had a distinct perfume scent and every surface was dustless. The nurses were unhurried, almost as if they too knew that they weren't going anywhere anytime soon. It was only after they took their seats in the waiting room that it occurred to John how unbearably difficult this was for Mycroft. Caring truly was was a disadvantage. 

The months that followed John's return from Afghanistan brought the darkest nights he had ever encountered. They weren't just dark, they were black. Every night brought a new nightmare that he couldn't escape from. He couldn't breathe yet he didn't mind because quite frankly, feeling nothing was surely better than feeling everything. He would close his eyes, try again. But every time he did, he heard them. Screams - desperate, full of fear and overflowing with pain screams. Screams that would haunt ones dreams forever - and they did. When John awoke, the noise didn't stop. Only then did he realise that he was the one screaming. Pleading for the nightmare to end. And as John sat waiting to hear something, anything, he felt the same pain, the same nightmare just waiting to be heard. 

Hours has passed before they were allowed to see Sherlock. He was still unconscious but stabalised, for now at least. Mycroft decided against it, but encouraged John to sit with him. Seeing Sherlock in such a state would only remind Mycroft of all the times he had found him, lying in an alley somewhere, a touch out of reality, oblivious to where he was and how he'd ended up there. Ever since Sherlock was twelve, Mycroft had waited for another tie on his brother's heart. After Redbeard, he thought it wasn't possible. Mycroft knew that John Watson was quite possibly the most dangerous temptation that Sherlock would ever face, a pull more powerful than any drug he had ever taken. Only the result of the elastic being released meant that Sherlock was back to his old habits. It pained Mycroft to admit it, but Sherlock's suffering was far beyond his help. John Watson was the only man who could get through to him now, if anyone. Mycroft knew that losing his brother would undoubtedly break his heart. Even if there was nothing there left to be broken.

John had prepared himself for what to expect when he entered the hospital room, due to remembering the vision he had when seeing Lestrade. Only this time, it was different. This time it was Sherlock, lying unconscious in a bed that was cold and incapable of comfort. The repeated noise that sounded from the machine attached to Sherlock's chest was the very little proof that he had a heart and it was in fact beating, existing, fighting. John struggled to remember a period of time this long he had spent with Sherlock without being insulted. His lips stretched at the thought, barely forming a smile but betraying the tears that formed in his eyes all the same.  

The silence was hateful. 

John fought the temptation of rewarding his tiredness by sitting down - because to sit would be making an unwilling commitment. He would be granting Sherlock's wish, giving him permission to stop fighting and slip away into the unknown. John swiftly moved around the bed, acknowledging Sherlock's best and worst angles. He looked the same, perfectly symmetrical. The white lights illuminated his features, revealing how pale he truly was. If Sherlock was in pain, John couldn't see it. He could feel it, but that was different. He looked remarkably peaceful, as though all his sufferings had come to a sudden end, just as John's had begun. It wasn't long before John had completely lost track of the time. He gave in and took the seat next to the bed. He sat close enough so that he could smell him. A mixture of mild bed sweat and disinfectant, but underneath, there was still something distinctly Sherlock and John clung onto it as he allowed himself to nudge that little bit closer. He pulled out the note once again and began to analyse it more intently knowing that Sherlock was as safe as he could be at this moment in time, by his side.

"Twenty seven." The silence was greeted by a croaky, almost unrecognisable whisper.

John's eyes met his and he'd never been more grateful to catch a glimpse of his favourite shade of spring rain blue. 

"I wrote twenty seven of them." Sherlock continued, grunting at the ache that consumed his body. 

"And were each of them as insulting as your final choice? I mean, after everything, is this all I was worth? No explanation, just a fucking goodbye, Sherlock?" John's anger shone through the relief he felt to hear Sherlock's voice.

"Each of them had a different reason, a different excuse. Nothing worked because nothing I could possibly tell you would justify what I was about to do. Only lies have detail, John. I couldn't leave you with a lie." 

And that's what caught John off guard. The sense of caring that most assumed Sherlock was born without. 

"But you could leave me. And you did. You attempted to kill yourself. Your choice, Sherlock."

John scrunched up the note and threw it at the glass window opposite. He stood up and marched towards the door. Almost about to leave before coming back out of old habits.

"One word, Sherlock. That's all I would have needed.   
One word to let me know that you were hurting.   
One word and I could have saved you."

Sherlock looked up. It would take a fool to miss the hatred he felt for himself. He'd always found comfort in John's words, regardless of what they meant. Sherlock could never understand how John did it. How he had the ability to comfort people without thinking twice about it. Sherlock had a lot to learn. He knew that and admitted it freely. The seconds of silence that followed acknowledged the uncertainty of the next move. It was like they were both circling each other on eggshells. A carefully choreographed dance that neither of them knew how to lead. 

John knew he should leave and let Sherlock rest. He knew it, but something rooted him to the ground, preventing him from leaving, almost as if he knew that Sherlock didn't want him to go. He moved closer to the bed, witnessing Sherlock close his eyes, a single tear splashing on his cheek. Sherlock felt his touch, John's thumb come up and brush it away a moment later. 

Sentiment. In the end, was Sherlock Holmes really so obvious?

There was something incredibly bittersweet in the moment that followed. John took his hand. He needed something to cling onto before leaning forward as much as the bed rail allowed. Their lips crashed together and both would admit that it felt immensely overdue. They kiss, slowly, gently. Because sometimes kissing the right person can feel like healing. Sherlock's skin was much colder than John had feared, and his tear was soon followed by another, caught by John's lips as he began taking a step back, removing the single curl on Sherlock's forehead with his thumb as he did so. 

"You can't -" John's head fell between his hands as he gripped tightly onto the bed rail, ensuring his balance wouldn't betray him. 

"You don't go where I can't follow you, Sherlock. Ever." 

And Sherlock could see the pain that reflected in John's eyes, the heartache that mirrored him. 

"Can you sit with me? For a moment. Please." Sherlock asked, placing his hand on top of John's which was immediately removed and placed by his side. 

"You won't hurt me, I promise." Sherlock shuffled over to his right, allowing John to lie on his right side and avoid the discomfort from his injured left. 

"I already have." John responded, making most of the very little room they had on the bed. 

They lay there for a moment not long enough, their heads barely two inches apart on the same pillow, facing each other with one hand up against the other's. Sherlock couldn't help but run his delicate touch over John's fingers and John let him, encouraged him even. 

"Now it's my turn to ask a question." John found himself murmuring, quietly. There was no room for noise. 

Sherlock nodded and accepted the challenge ahead of him.

"Why?" 

John glanced up in Sherlock's direction, embracing the overwhelming feeling of heartache. Only it was more than heartache - something much more, threatening to swallow them both whole in a single heartbeat.

"Sherlock." 

And it's all he can do not to flinch as John interlocks his fingers in his and places his free hand gently on his cheek. And there was that damn feeling again. One he couldn't rid himself of even if he tried. The feeling, knowing that he was home.

"You saw me, the way that everyone else saw me. You saw me for who I really am. I've never been a hero, John. Not even close. Yet, when I was with you, I felt like I could have been. I felt like anything was possible because you loved me. Something which until you came along, everyone believed was impossible. Including me. You left and my existence no longer had a purpose. I knew that I couldn't forget you. Not only are you on my mind, you're in my heart. You're the strength that keeps it beating. I wanted to be a solider, a fighter, like you. I wanted to win the battle that I had created but I had lost my strength and I couldn't. I couldn't do it. And I know that makes me a ridiculous, selfish man, John. But love is by far the most viscous motivator. You deserved better. You didn't deserve me."

"Maybe that was my choice to make, Sherlock. You are the biggest idiot I have ever known. You're stubborn as hell. You're arrogant, impatient, rude..."

John witnessed Sherlock's frown of confusion. Almost like he'd never been confronted with the truth before continuing his narrative.

"But you're thoughtful and you're attentive. You're brilliantly fascinating, charming, wise and - and you saved my life. In more ways than one. If you felt like disappearing would somehow make my life better, you've never been more wrong. I only exist because of you. 

Because you chose me."

John noticed the sudden realisation that shone through Sherlock's eyes. How could this man still not understand? 

"You'll survive this and be your own strength, the strength that you need." John's thumb lightly ran through his curls. 

With no distractions, they appreciated every second, wrapped in each other's warmth and comfort. Comfort that allowed Sherlock to drift into a deep sleep, soon followed by John. The sun had set before John woke, taking a moment to himself to gather his surroundings. He glanced at the man, peacefully resting between his arms before making the distressing decision to get up. Carefully, ensuring not to make a single sound, John lifted the bed rail back in it's rightful place. He checked his watch with the knowledge that the last flight to Italy leaves just after midnight before staring down at the now healing man in front of him. The silver band on his third finger placed on his left hand caught the light and then John's attention. Gradually, he removed the ring and placed it against his lips, against his soft touch that Sherlock had grown to adore, before letting it rest next to his own note which he had placed on the table where Sherlock couldn't miss it. 

'Don't ever go where I can't follow

Yours, John.'

He leans in, meaning to offer comfort and reassurance, but whether it's for Sherlock or himself, he's not entirely sure and he'd rather not know. John told himself that it was just a goodbye, the kiss, but it suddenly became too much - too raw, too vulnerable, too emotional - and it diverted midway there, pressing his lips to Sherlock's forehead instead. A much safer destination. 

John alerted the nurse that Sherlock had come round before exiting the room without glancing back because he knew that if he did, he might never leave. With a second and final goodbye to Mycroft, John caught a glimpse of another familiar face. 

"It doesn't matter where you are, John Watson, know that you'll always find a home under my roof." Mrs Hudson wrapped her arms as tightly as humanly possible around John before welling up. 

"You asked me once, if I had children. I told you I didn't. Well, that was a lie. You've always been like a son to me, and you going to Italy isn't going to change that, young man. Do you hear me?" Mrs Hudson had placed both hands on John's face, a sweet mixture of happiness and sorrow crossing her features.

"Thank you, for everything. I'll keep in touch. Just - look after him, please. He needs you." 

"He needs a good talking into more like! I'll look after him, John. You can trust me."

"I know. He'll always be in good hands with you." John smiled sweetly, taking Mrs Hudson's hands and placing a kiss on both of them. 

John left the hospital, reclaimed his luggage and reached the airport, this time making it on the plane that took him beyond the clouds to a place that gave him exactly what he needed. Time.

And as he flew through the stars and sky and everything in between, John wondered if this is what it was like.

 

To love the right one, at the wrong time.


End file.
